


Choices

by AcidIce



Series: Cause and Affection [1]
Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Angst, F/M, Incest, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidIce/pseuds/AcidIce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in Emporia, Booker and Elizabeth's relationship took a turn for the intimate. The consequences are beyond anything they could imagine. TW: Incest, Bookerbeth</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strike 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a series of related oneshots depicting an alternate view of Booker and Elizabeth's relationship. The big "twist" at the end of the game still stands, and yes, this is still a romance. Please take that into consideration when deciding to read this work.

Chapter 1

Elizabeth was reluctant to wake up. The sheets cocooning her were warm and soft, and the pillow cradled her head at just the right angle. She kept her eyes closed as she considered what to do that day. _Practice French, I suppose, reread some of the classics. Again. Hmm, I haven't picked up the flute in—_

Her thoughts halted as she stretched out her limbs; instead of her feet meeting cool air as they drifted off the bed, they met only slightly cooler sheets. Her bed, while comfortable, was not that accommodating. She opened her eyes and stared at the bright yellow pillowcase cutting out half her field of vision. Raising her head, she took in the matching yellow bedspread; it was far brighter and larger than the sky-blue linens she was accustomed to. The walls were not a neutral beige, but a warm red. This was not her bed, not her room, not her…

"Booker."

Elizabeth's head reeled as she recalled the last few days. Her ears rang with Songbird's screeches and gunshots while airships and hungry children flashed before her eyes. And last night…She sat straight up and her muscles screamed, the sheets slipped down and goosebumps trailed up her arms. Elizabeth looked down and didn't see her pajamas. She didn't see _anything_.

"Booker!"

She went from a soft murmur to a panicked hiss, clutching the linens back up to her chest. The bedroom was large, but not large enough for a man Booker's size to hide in—and he never struck her as the type to pull a prank. She scanned her surroundings for her clothes, but when she spotted her corset, her torso ached. Lady Comstock dressed for fashion, not adventure, and small bruises lined her skin where the bodice's rubbing had been particularly fierce. The First Lady airship had no spare undergarments in stock, and Elizabeth's had been spoiled by sweat, grime, and the blood of a certain revolutionary.

A black shirt was rumpled at the foot of the bed—Booker's. Elizabeth pulled it over her head, realizing it was no cleaner than her old chemise, but unquestionably more comfortable than the corset. It smelled of cigarettes and salt, and another odor she couldn't name at first. She slipped out of the bed and spotted the dried, red-brownish stain not far from where she had been laying, and then remembered. The shirt smelled like blood. Had she really become so familiar with the stench that it no longer stood out to her?

The cloth fell down to her thighs and provided nowhere near the level of modesty Elizabeth was used to—but modesty wasn't much use here. She glanced out the window; the room was on the second story and provided an excellent view for a tragic scene. Red streaked through Emporia, on banners and posters and the abandoned corpses that littered the streets. _No_ , Elizabeth thought wryly, _it doesn't quite matter if my knees are covered._

She stepped around the furniture and paused at the threshold. A small tornado of crows awaited anyone who dared sneak up the stairs down the hallway. Elizabeth tiptoed around Booker's trap and followed the sound of water hitting porcelain—the bathroom. A lamp's light poured out of the room, casting a man's shadow on the floor and up the opposing wall, as if DeWitt really _needed_ to look any more imposing.

His back was turned to her, and he was much more exposed than usual. Elizabeth felt almost chaste in comparison—Booker's boxers hid only so much. He had a straight razor in one hand and held the other to his face, keeping his gaze focused on the mirror above the sink. She waited until he was wiping the edge clean on a nearby towel before speaking up.

"You'd do well to be more aware of your surroundings."

Were it not for his lack of clothing, Elizabeth may have never noticed him tense up. He had exceptional control over his body's movements, but she could still spot his shoulders tighten and his back muscles knit together, preparing for action. Booker's grip on the razor slackened when he noticed her through the mirror.

"You oughta reconsider sneaking up on someone with a weapon," he retorted, but not unkindly.

Elizabeth leaned against the threshold, half in and out of the room, imitating her own internal waffling. Neither said a word or made a move. When the silence stung more than her various aches and pains, Elizabeth finally muttered out "I didn't know where you were. Why didn't you wake me?"

"Figured you could use the rest."

It wasn't untrue, after all. While Booker wasn't used to the level of combat he'd faced in the last three days, he knew it lay nowhere near Elizabeth's own level of experience. However, he certainly wasn't eager to have a conversation with her. Not about the night before.

"What we did, last night—"

"Was a mistake."

His firmness took Elizabeth by surprise. Booker was rarely indecisive, but if anything should prompt _some_ ambivalence…

"I don't see it that way," she replied, trying to match his certainty and almost succeeding. _A woman's chastity is her crowning jewel_ , she recalled from one of the many guides on etiquette stocked in her old library. _Damn the jewels_ , she thought. Being a proper bride for her wedding night had plummeted on her list of priorities.

Booker sighed, running his thumb over the razor's edge to focus himself. Not too hard to break the skin, just enough to feel _anything_ besides shame. "I did wrong by you. Can't take that back. Won't happen again."

"I _asked_ you to," Elizabeth shot back hotly. "I pulled you into bed, I- _I_ kissed you, I…" She trailed off, blushing furiously as years of indoctrinated propriety admonished her from within. Booker's neutral expression was hardly encouraging. She suddenly felt very small, and sagged slightly against the door frame, folding her arms and ducking her head in a defensive stance.

The movement dragged the back of the black shirt up, revealing even more of her pale legs in a tempting contrast. Booker had turned halfway around to reply but froze when he saw more than just her face and shoulders from her reflection in the mirror. His shirt shrouded everything above her thighs, but he could remember the curves underneath well enough. There was something very appealing about her in his clothing—he even preferred it over the corset and skirt. DeWitt hissed as his thumb slipped and split open over the razor, and he quickly turned the water back on to run over the fresh wound.

"Let me see."

Where Elizabeth had found a small medicine kit without him noticing was beyond Booker, but she set it on the counter top beside the sink all the same. It wasn't well stocked—hardly anything in Emporia was at the moment—but it had enough tape and gauze to do the trick. Elizabeth was grateful the scratch wasn't big enough to need stitches, but worried that there was nothing to sanitize the wound with. _His right hand was stabbed clean through and there's no infection yet,_ she reflected. _Maybe there's more to the Lutece's shield than meets the eye._

Booker bit the inside of his cheek as she tended to his thumb, determined not to take advantage of the view down his own shirt on her. Christ, he was stupid. His thoughts followed the same pattern of Preacher Witting's sermon at the entrance of Columbia. _If I'd never touched her, it would have been enough. I'd still be headed to hell. If I'd pushed her off of me, it would have been enough. If I'd kept my damn belt on, it would have been enough…_ No, now DeWitt was destined for even lower levels of eternal torment.

Even though she'd finished, Elizabeth kept hold of his hand in both of hers. He didn't pull away, that was a good sign. She took a deep breath, considering her words carefully, then murmured, "Last night was…the only good thing that's happened to me since…" Since when? Getting a child to trust her enough to accept some food? Dancing on the boardwalk? Some fond memory in the tower she couldn't even remember? "…If you didn't enjoy it, too, well, I-I'm sorry," she finished lamely, wincing through it. There were moments last night where she felt positively boneless—now she only felt spineless.

"You ain't got a damn thing to apologize for." Booker wrapped his fingers around the hand she had pressed to his palm, but forced his gaze to the side at some imaginary spot on the wall. "I just…it's the sort of thing you don't do with someone like me."

Elizabeth thought back to when they first arrived at this abandoned house. They had immediately scoured the place for any lurking enemies, then for any useful supplies, and found it as good a place as any to set up camp for the night before resuming the trek toward Comstock House. Both of them were exhausted, but were still riding an adrenaline high from a firefight against the Vox. There were several available bedrooms to Booker's relief; he wouldn't have to take the couch out of courtesy. But when he made to go settle down for the night, Elizabeth had called him back—she wasn't even sure why. She remembered taking hold of his forearms and finding solace in his sturdiness. Finally, something stable in this damned flying city. She'd pressed herself against him in a desperate hug that wasn't returned. Her eyes had stung with tears beaten back by sheer stubbornness, and she clutched at his vest to walk backwards to the bed. This much he'd obliged her. They never even kissed until they were both half naked, and only by her own initiative.

"I needed it…needed _you_."

Booker scoffed. "What you _need_ is a fella your own age." He didn't believe it, and a part of him didn't want her to, either. But he was hardly the tender hero she'd grown up reading about, and it seemed he couldn't let an hour go by without showing her the ugliest parts of life outside a tower. Even the ugliest parts of sex. The broken whimper she let out when he first entered her wouldn't be forgotten any time soon. Their "courtship" consisted of corpse-looting and lock-picking, the only flowers being the ones they trampled over while escaping. There was no good reason for her to share herself with him.

"You've got a habit of shooting every 'fella' that comes near me, my age or otherwise," she replied tartly. He still wouldn't meet her gaze, but she could have sworn there was a ghost of a smile on his face. It was a handsome one, despite the roughness—Elizabeth was certain a grin would improve it. Dabs of shaving soap remained here and there along the outlines of his face, adding an inappropriate amount of levity to the otherwise serious discussion. "I wanted _you_. I-I want _you_." Heat spread through her cheeks again at the wanton admission, and she looked to the ground just as Booker brought his gaze to her eyes for the first time.

"I could be your father." His stomach knotted at the idea, but she had to realize there was more to their age difference than a few greying hairs—if nothing else would convince her they were a bad match. He didn't expect the biting glare she threw back at him.

"But you're not, are you," she replied coldly. Elizabeth pulled her hands away from his and crossed her arms over her chest again, taking a half-turn away from him. "My father is an insane prophet trying to… _groom_ me to carry out his divine _fucking_ will," she spat, flushing from anger rather than embarrassment.

Booker tensed at her vulgar language and immediately regretted drawing the comparison. "And that will never happen," he promised resolutely. "I _will_ get you out of here."

Elizabeth noted the lack of destination in that pledge. Did it even matter? Anywhere was better than Columbia. Whatever Booker's employers had planned for her in New York, it couldn't be worse than Comstock's intentions. She wasn't even sure she wanted to be in Paris if it meant being alone, without him. _This thug, this liar, he's all I have_ , she thought somberly. The protagonists in her romance novels were nothing like Booker. They never killed unless out of absolute necessity, their pasts were never so gruesome, and they certainly never bedded the leading lady within days of meeting her—no matter how insistent she was. Of course, no proper lady would act in such a way. _I'm no proper lady. Not since Daisy…maybe even earlier. Perhaps he and I are just right together._

Her silence made Booker uncomfortable, and he hesitated before bringing his hand to the small of her back. She remained lost in thought, but eventually leaned back into his touch. Elizabeth was unlike anyone else he'd ever met. Had any other woman thrust herself upon him so suddenly, he would have enjoyed himself and then written them off as a tramp. But Elizabeth…she was the only person he'd cared about in a very long time—and God help her, he was the only person around she _could_ care about.

Finally, she sighed and spoke up. "It wasn't a mistake, not to me. It wasn't… _planned_ , but I'd do it again. With you."

_Goddamnit_. Booker condemned himself even as he pulled her into an embrace, nestling his head atop hers. Any purity she had when they met had been chipped away with each passing moment—and that didn't make her any less desirable. Hell, he'd never expected to depend on her as much as he did now, never would have guessed what that girl he first met in the library was capable of. "Well…what do you want to do about it?" Booker stuffed his own lewd ideas to the back of his mind; the choice ought to be hers.

Elizabeth looked up at him thoughtfully for a long moment, biting back a smirk at the pressure she felt against her stomach. "Why, Mr. Dewitt, I believe you've missed a spot." Booker was about to chide her for the formality, especially considering their new familiarity, but stopped when her fingers brushed against the hollow of his right cheek. "How careless. Allow me."

She broke out of his arms and planted her palms on the countertop that extended next to the sink, pushing herself up onto it. It was quite a lift, and brought her almost to eye-level with him. She turned the faucet to wet her fingers, then shut it off and dampened the unshaven skin. Pride stirred within her when she took hold of the straight razor and brought it to Booker's face, and yet he closed his eyes. He had the utmost confidence she knew what to do, and would do it well. There was a sort of trust somewhere between them. Somehow.

Elizabeth pulled the skin taut and scraped away the offending stubble, exactly as some obscure passage in some forgotten book had demonstrated. She seemed oblivious to the fact that her legs were open and that he stood between them to give her better access. Booker was much more aware of it, however, especially the way her knees squeezed against his hips to keep him in place. His boxers did little to hide his erection, which at this angle was left to press against her exposed thigh. It would be so easy to take her right there, to relive the best parts of the night before and make up for the worst—and it wasn't the blade she held to his face that stopped him, but the sudden gleam in her eyes that told Booker she knew _exactly_ what she was doing.

Elizabeth grabbed a nearby towel and dabbed his face dry, removing any leftover soap in a frustratingly thorough manner. She pressed her thumb against the now smooth skin. And then her lips. Booker had no trouble catching on and returned the kiss.

_This time will be different._


	2. Finally Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after Elizabeth's capture by Songbird, later in the same day of where chapter 1 ended.

At least the chair was comfortable. Being whisked away by a mechanical bird had left its fair share of bruises, as had the less-than-gentle handling by the guards awaiting her arrival. Elizabeth could do without the coarse leather straps at her wrists and ankles, but all things considered, this was the most luxurious position she’d found herself in over the last few hours. _Hours_. Booker couldn’t be too far behind.

When the door behind her creaked open she remained still. Once Elizabeth had been secured in place and left alone—she guessed perhaps an hour ago—she had taken full account of her escape options and range of motion. The raw skin beneath the straps was a testament to that. The headrest behind her curved and extended high up, blocking anything behind her immediate left and right from view. The intruder took their time in the background, shuffling papers and clanking metal lightly together. From the soft click-clacking of their steps Elizabeth assumed it was a woman in heels.

“Hello, dear.”

Elizabeth said nothing, fixing her gaze on the wall in front of her. She’d only gotten a passing glance at the room in its entirety before being strapped in, but knew that it was small, only about the size of a bedroom, and besides a table behind her and the chair she was trapped in, there was no furniture. The chair the woman carried into her field of vision must have come from outside.

“My name is Ruth, I’m a nurse.” Ruth was a plain woman, not much older than Elizabeth, and dressed in a white uniform, as if proving her position. She had a kind smile—but she was still one of her captors. Elizabeth maintained a neutral expression. _That’s what Booker would do_. “You have nothing to be afraid of, dear. Everyone is thrilled to have you out of that tower and where you belong. It must feel wonderful to be finally home.”

Elizabeth supposed long-term prisoners might consider their jails home, after a certain point. That wouldn’t happen to her, though. She knew where her home was, it was…destroyed. By Songbird. _I’m homeless_ , she thought, letting it sink in all over again. It was just as much a prison as this place was, but at least there she had full control of her limbs.

“I’m only here to make sure you’re still in good physical condition,” Ruth went on, that smile never leaving her face. “The last few days…I can only imagine how hard it’s been on you. Being kidnapped by that…” she broke off, looking sincerely sad for Elizabeth. Ruth laid a hand on top of hers consolingly. “But Father Comstock must have known it would happen, and never would have allowed it to do so if he didn’t _know_ you would come out all right. This shouldn’t take long at all.”

As if on cue, a terribly bright light from above flickered on, illuminating the pair in a small circle. Elizabeth winced, preferring the softer sconces that dotted the walls. She could see the beams reflected on the upper half of the wall in front of her; the previous dimness hadn’t revealed the glass. The door opened, and heavier footsteps came through—men. Two appeared on each side of her and began undoing the straps at her wrists. Her eyes flitted around the room, but no tears had been present when she first entered, and none were popping into existence now. Elizabeth could see by their uniforms that the men were Founders soldiers, and they were rougher than they needed to be—her reputation must have preceded her. Only when one began tugging on her jacket did she panic and recoil away.

“Now, dear, they’re only here to help,” Ruth chided softly. “We must see _all_ of you, to ensure your well-being.”

“And you need soldiers to do that?” spat Elizabeth. They’d wrangled her jacket off of her and one kept a forceful grip on her arms while the other worked on the corset’s laces.

“This is for your own safety,” the nurse assured her sweetly. Elizabeth’s arms were pinned against the headrest and the corset was slipped up over her. “My, that garment can’t have been comfortable, but those bruises ought to heal on their own in a few days. Gentlemen, the skirts, please.”

Elizabeth felt humiliated, even as the soldiers seemed to keep their gaze away from her. Her wrists lost their freedom before her ankles were unstrapped, and she ground her hips into the back of the chair to keep her skirts from slipping. “ _Please_ , dear, you’re only dragging this out.” Ruth crossed over to the back of the chair and fiddled with the mechanism beneath it, reclining the back to be almost level with the seat. There was an unceremonious _clunk_ as her boots hit the floor. Elizabeth only held out for a few moments before the material flowed out from beneath her, her undergarments soon following, and finally her stockings. She snapped her legs together, but, as if expecting that, they pulled her feet apart to re-secure her ankles.

She wanted to weep. Ever since seeing the two-way mirror in her tower Elizabeth had known that she’d been watched her entire life, that countless people had seen this much of her. But somehow _this_ was so much worse. Her gaze had nowhere else to go but the harsh bright light on the ceiling, so she kept her eyes shut and balled her fists, so as not to give them the satisfaction of her tears.

“Can you describe your diet since being taken from the tower?”

Cotton candy. Hot dogs. The man on the boardwalk had thought Booker was her father. _No, sir, actually my father is_ …no one. It wasn’t Comstock, he took her from her parents, whoever they were. She wondered if she’d ever meet them.

“An answer, please.”

“Irregular.” Elizabeth heard the sounds of scratching on paper.

“How so?”

She chewed on her lip before responding. Information was valuable, after all. “One day we didn’t eat at all. Whatever we found had to do. Crackers, fruit. I can’t remember.” Her stomach growled with excellent timing.

"Well, we’ll get that squared away soon enough, once we’re done here.”

The examination seemed to drag on and on. Ruth went over each limb, testing reflexes and examining wounds. Besides the scrapes and bruises, Elizabeth was as healthy as if she had taken the Lutece infusion instead of Booker. No fever, no sprains, only mild dehydration. “Such a pity about your hair, it was so lovely long.” Ruth’s questions grew increasingly asinine, and Elizabeth could swear the nurse’s grin was becoming audible. She heard more papers being shuffled, then set down somewhere, and sensed Ruth standing at her feet.

“All right, gentlemen. The stirrups, please.”

* * *

Despite being fully clothed again, Elizabeth felt naked. Ruth and the soldiers had been gone for some time now, the promise of food remaining unfulfilled. The bright light had gone out, the sconces relit, and she was put back into a sitting position, left to glare at the same wall she’d faced before. Ruth’s demeanor had abruptly changed during the gynecological portion of the exam—her voice had flattened along with her lips. Her questions grew more curt, her instructions to the soldiers less polite. Elizabeth knew what she’d discovered, and wondered how that would affect her treatment.

 _It won’t matter_ , she thought fiercely. _Booker is coming, he’ll be here before nightfall. This will be just one more bad memory._ She shifted uneasily against the straps, hissing at the roughness against her now overly-sensitive skin. Every now and then she could hear muffled voices through the walls, but never anything as distinct as words.

The wall in front of her lit up—or at least, the top of it did. _Another mirror. Except I can see them, too._ Elizabeth strained her eyes to make out the details of the other side, but there was only the yellow, and a fuzzy shadow coming up against it. The black figure became less hazy at it approached the glass, to the point where she could see it was an arm reaching below where the window cut off. A light beneath to illuminate Zachary Hale Comstock staring neutrally at her.

“Hello, dear child.” He must have had a microphone, because his voice came from above through speakers she couldn’t see. _Of course his word comes from on high_ , she thought distastefully. “I’m happy to have you safe at last, if not as whole as you once were.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure if he could even see her face, as dim as the sconces on her end were, but maintained a blank expression all the same.

“I knew the false shepherd would come for you.” His voice boomed from the ceiling, and his sadness sounded sincere. “I begged the Lord to spare you any pain, but the flames are needed to forge a worthy blade. In any case, you’re home again, as I knew you would be. And the false shepherd _will_ pay for the injustice done against you, dear Elizabeth.”

Ruth had said it herself, she was fine besides the odd nick and contusion. No wounds went deeper than her skin, so what was the old man talking about? “I don’t…understand.” Elizabeth’s voice was a croak from disuse and lack of water. “Y-You’ve got me, why do you need to go after him?”

“Why, to punish him, of course,” Comstock replied in surprise. His dark eyes were full of pity—they repulsed her. “The wretch has slain hundreds of my men— _our_ men. It is his way. Like a biting dog, he must be put down.” Comstock was still afraid of him, then. Good. “And, worse than I dared to fear, he allowed you to become… _despoiled_.”

Elizabeth’s knees twitched of their own accord. Every word counted now, but she had no idea what to say to get her out of these straps—or prevent her from being put somewhere worse. The fright must have shown in her face despite her best efforts, and Comstock’s shoulders sagged under his bowed head. She’d never seen the man so humbled.

“Rape is one of the great atrocities of man,” he murmured dolefully. “Even in a haven like Columbia, the vermin find their way in. If we had only found you sooner, before you were ever dragged to that vile shantytown…but, we must move forward.” Comstock peered up at her through the glass, tenseness writ in every winkle. “It was one of the blasted _Vox_ , wasn’t it?”

Elizabeth shivered upon hearing him angry for the first time. Despite his crimes, she’d never seen him lose composure. “W-What are you talking about?” she gasped, suddenly feeling suffocated. “Shantytown? I don’t—“

“Yes, that pit of depravity!” he roared, the speakers crackling. “DeWitt must have lost you, yes? And one of those Vox Populi swine found you and _forced_ you!”

“I-I’m not, I—“

“And that damned false shepherd will rue the day he let you come into harm’s way,” Comstock continued. His gaze was on her, but his eyes seemed far ahead, as if she was invisible. His hands clenched in front of him violently. “That weak-willed coward, whoring, drinking, _gutting_ his way through my city, everything I’ve built! The sacrifices I’ve made, my child, all for you, all of them…”

The thought of near-slavery brought on in her name made Elizabeth sick, and she squirmed uncomfortably. Her nails dug into her palms as she willed Booker to hurry up and get her the hell out of here. _If a tear would just_ appear _already_...she’d become so reliant on them over the last few days, and now felt utterly powerless. Even if one miraculously came into being, however, there was little she could do with whatever lay on the other side while restrained.

“I’ll see him drawn and quartered, flayed living, I’ll see him beg for Hell’s embrace!”

Elizabeth did her best to keep visions of Booker’s various punishments out of her mind. She’d only ever touched a firearm to pass it onto him, but nonetheless felt strangely… _protective_ of him now. She couldn’t pretend to know of his tendencies before they first met—the whoring and drinking could very well be as true as the gutting certainly was—but he was the closest thing in the world she had to a friend. Columbia would fall out of the sky before Elizabeth allowed the light to go out of those green eyes.

Comstock paused, his voice rasping from the outburst. He took a moment to collect himself, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “God has shown us, time and time again, that only fire can drown wickedness. You’ll learn to use it yourself, in due course. And Fink’s housing district, that is the source of Columbia’s evil. The womb of the Vox must be burned so as to stop the spawn of sin. With any luck, the beast who defiled you will be there to be smothered in smoke—and even if not, he won’t get far.”

“B- _Burned?!_ ” Elizabeth stammered, her throat closing up as if she could feel the embers now.

“Yes, my dear,” he answered solemnly, nodding as if they were well in agreement. “I’ve long considered destroying the lot of them, but Fink…” he sighed exasperatedly. “The man thinks only in money, not morality. He cannot see the sanctuary he’s created for the damned. No more—we’ll put the torch to it.”

“ _Booker!_ ” she screamed, drawing blood against the leather as she scrabbled to get up. “I-It wasn’t the Vox, it wasn’t _anyone_ , it was _him_ , it was _Emporia_ , _please!_ ” Her breath was as ragged as the prophet’s, desperate as she was to convince him against this plan.

Comstock didn’t speak for a long moment. He seemed to age even as mere seconds passed, the lines in his face etching ever deeper. His eyes had always been on her face, but for the first time since the beginning of his morbid sermon, he truly seemed to be looking _at_ her. “Elizabeth…what _exactly_ are you telling me, child?”

The freezing calm in his words made her shrink against the chair. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been—she couldn’t _not_ see the child she coaxed into accepting food in the bar basement. “B-Booker and I, last n-night, in Emp-poria, pl _-ple-hease_! W-We were near the b-bank, s-some house and…and Shantytown had n- _nothing_ to do with it!”

“You…you _laid_ with the false shepherd?” Elizabeth nodded earnestly, cursing the tears that were streaming down her face. “ _Answer_ me, damn it!”

“ _Yes_ ,” she hissed. Her heart was in her throat and _still_ her chest seemed desperate for air.

Comstock looked…lost. For a moment, the anger dissipated. He lowered himself until he was at chest-level with the bottom of the window—he was _kneeling_? When his hands clasped together and his eyes creased shut Elizabeth understood, but what was he praying _for?_ His silent devotion persisted until Elizabeth could swear she felt her own blood congealing on her skin, and when he finally opened his eyes, there was a loathing that wiped away any physical ache or pain she felt. Only terror was left. Comstock rose to his feet and reached for something out of view. The lights on his side of the glass turned off, leaving her alone with his last words to ring in her ears.

“You’d better hope you bleed within the month.”

 


	3. Hello, Dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during Elizabeth's time at Comstock House.

“Hello, dear.”

 _Water_. She could hear it, she could _taste_ it, somewhere behind her, always out of reach. It was Ruth—it was _always_ Ruth—who walked in front of her with a jug and glass. She smiled sweetly. It made Elizabeth’s stomach turn, but she kept her gaze to the liquid, memorizing its motion as it tumbled from the larger container to the smaller. The sloshing was a lovelier music than she’d ever heard before.

“ _Please_ ,” she croaked. She couldn’t even recognize her own voice, as dried out as her throat was.

“Well of course!” Elizabeth’s heart thudded in something near excitement when the glass was brought to her lips, and she eagerly tipped her head back—“But first, you must repent.”

“For…what?” She strained forward out of the chair, but the straps held firm and the glass was pulled out of reach. _No, please_. How long had it been since her last drink? Two days? She wasn’t sure, she spent so much time sleeping now to forget.

“My dear, if you can’t even name your sin, your penance won’t be genuine,” Ruth chided, taking a sip herself. Elizabeth yearned for a pair of scissors.

“I-I’m sorry, for escaping the tower, please, it was a mistake!”

Ruth scoffed derisively. “You were _kidnapped_ , Elizabeth. You can’t truly believe you’d ever be capable of escaping all on your own, do you?”

“The Vox, I helped them, I’m _sorry!_ ” And God, she meant it, too. All the bloodshed throughout the city, because Elizabeth and Booker had helped armed the rebels. It was supposed to be justice, it was supposed to be _romantic_. But the children of Shantytown were still starving, and now the Founders’ children were bleeding. Columbia simply wasn’t meant to have a happy ending.

“Oh, dear, you have a knack for being self-involved.” Ruth tutted and pressed the glass against Elizabeth’s forehead, bringing a whimper out of the teenager. “You really think those undesirables are a threat? Our forces will have them put down soon enough. Whatever trouble they’ve caused, they would have accomplished without you.”

Elizabeth wondered if the nurse had left the mansion recently—surely she wouldn’t be so indifferent if she’d actually _seen_ the riots and corpses and looted homes. The glass was cold and wet against her brow and she shot out her tongue, hoping to sweep up some of the condensation, but it was pulled away all too quickly. _Booker can shoot her, I won’t mind_ —Booker. That was what Ruth was after. Elizabeth curled her lip and steeled herself. They wouldn’t let her die, she was too precious to the prophet. Water would be given well before then, whether she repented or not.

“Booker…the false shepherd,” she murmured softly, noting the way Ruth perked up.

“Yes, now you’ve got it,” the nurse agreed encouragingly. She took a hearty gulp from the glass and topped it off from the jug.

Elizabeth nearly lost her nerve at that, but pulled the strength from somewhere to push on. “I put hands on him, and…and he put hands on me, in Emporia.” How long ago had that been? Days bled together here, much like in the tower.

“We all succumb to sin,” Ruth replied solemnly. “What matters is we seek forgiveness, and grow stronger so as to avoid it.”

“Yes, I…I succumbed.”

“And are you sorry, dear?”

“O-Oh yes, of course!” Elizabeth’s words were fervent, much to Ruth’s liking. “And I’ll be sure to make it up to him when I can.”

Ruth shot her a quizzical look. “Make it up to _who_ , Elizabeth?”

“Why, the false shepherd,” Elizabeth answered innocently, cocking her head to the side. “You see, every moment spent in this hellhole is a moment I could be spending in service to him.” Ruth’s jaw went slack and her grip on the jug loosened, spilling water across the floor tiles. “I only hope he can forgive me—but I’m sure he will, he’s quite generous like that. He’ll probably put hands on me right here, in this chair, to make up for lost time.” The jug fell to the floor with a crash, spurring Elizabeth on. “Right after putting a bullet in Father Comstock’s head.”

The glass shattered when it cracked against her jaw, and more glass than water ended up in her mouth. Ruth dropped the remaining shards and backed away in horror—but Elizabeth knew she herself was the source of the nurse’s fear, not the prophet. No, Ruth wouldn’t be punished for hurting her—no one else ever was. She spit out the pieces of glass and winced as her tongue ran over the cuts. Perhaps it was a mistake, but it was the first sliver of control she’d felt since being brought here. Even restrained with no tears to access, Elizabeth had managed to strike fear into her jailer, and for now, that was sweeter than water.

* * *

“Hello, dear.”

Dr. Powell would be a handsome man if there wasn’t a cruel quality in his eyes. Unfortunately, with the mask he insisted on wearing nearly all the time—as if her obstinacy was some contagious disease—his eyes were all Elizabeth ever saw. He strolled into her cell, rapping on the bars to rouse her from a fitful slumber. She rolled over to glare at him.

“And how are we feeling today?” The corners of his eyes creased—her displeasure must have made him smile. She was sure he and Ruth got along famously.

Elizabeth flung the thin blanket off her in distaste. Her sense of modesty was not what it once was, and she cared little if he saw her in her undergarments. For all she knew, he’d been one of her many observers in the tower. She gestured between her legs and, when there was no response, sighed impatiently. “My monthly course has started.”

“Right on schedule, then, you’ve always been quite punctual in that regard.” His knowledge of her menstruation cycle made her recoil in disgust. “The prophet will be pleased. I’ll send for fresh underclothes and your morning lesson will begin on schedule.”

Dr. Powell made a swift exit—he was obviously eager to deliver the news. Elizabeth curled up on her mat and pondered the stickiness between her thighs. She ought to be glad, shouldn’t she? A pregnancy and the resulting baby would only complicate things. Worse, if her abilities were hereditary…the child would suffer the same upbringing she had. Elizabeth inhaled deeply, wrapping her arms around herself. _This is for the best. I can’t be a mother, even if Comstock let me. Not now. The things he’d do to it…_

She pictured a baby with Booker’s eyes and fought back tears. God, she missed him. He…probably wouldn’t know what to say at all, really, but his presence would be a comfort. A child would be conclusive proof of their night together, proof that existed beyond her memories and missing hymen—it would absolutely infuriate Comstock. The seed of the prophet impregnated by the seed of the false shepherd. Such poetry.

* * *

“Hello, dear.”

Another cell, another window. For once Elizabeth missed the chair. She’d been forced to her knees for what felt like hours, and the bindings at her wrists that attached to the stake in front of her made any other position hard to hold past a few minutes. They probably expected her to be praying. She glared up at the glass, mustering up all the spite she could in Father Comstock’s direction.

“I trust you’ve spent this time reaching out for the Holy Spirit.”

“It’s a bit hard to focus on my devotions when it’s so cold,” Elizabeth retorted. Her jacket and corset had been stripped from her before the bindings were applied, as if they were determined to destroy any lasting sense of shame she had. “Surely my _father_ can’t bear that his child was left half-naked?”

“No father can bear his child’s pain—the child must grow to bear it on their own.” The door opened and a Founder soldier walked in, a coil of leather in hand. Elizabeth inhaled sharply. _They wouldn’t. It’s to scare me, nothing more_. “Penance is due from all of us, in one way or another. You must answer for your wrongdoings, Elizabeth, and yet you’ve resisted all our efforts to help you.”

She glowered at the soldier, whose helmet blocked most of his face from view. Even if he wasn’t leering at her, his presence was affront enough. “Ruth absolved me of my sins. I’m not to blame for leaving the tower, or arming the Vox.”

“You confessed to your transgression in Emporia,” Comstock cut to the point impatiently. “But confession is not enough, remorse must be shown. Unless…” He leaned in close to the glass, scrutinizing her. Even with a drastically diminished sense of propriety, his gaze made her tuck her elbows close to her chest and hide what she could. “…you claim that you were forced?”

Elizabeth recalled the way Booker had hesitated between her legs, the way she’d bucked up against him _begging_ him to hurry. “No.” She couldn’t fight a smirk.

Comstock’s expression didn’t change. “I thought not. DeWitt is a monster, beyond what you can see. I know him, the things he’s done. The women and children he’s slain, the villages sacked. His bloodlust will never be sated…but he’s no rapist.”

She couldn’t picture Booker ever harming a defenseless woman or child, but…Wounded Knee. Something truly terrible must have happened there to haunt him the way it did. Anger flashed over her—where the hell _was_ he? It had been at least one month, but not quite two. Without a calendar her periods were the only way of keeping track of the time. _He’s coming. Whatever is stalling him, he’s taking care of it. He’ll be here. Soon._

"Do you repent, child?”

Elizabeth raised her head, swallowing hard. The cuts from Ruth’s “disciplining” still burned at her mouth—it had been weeks since then, but they just wouldn’t heal. That victory had been short-lived; they’d made her wait another full day before giving her water. It wasn’t enough to wash the taste of blood out of her mouth. She shot another furtive look at the whip and decided the words wouldn’t matter as much as the pain. “Yes,” she murmured softly.

 _Crack_.

The force knocked the air out of her body, and for a brief moment there was no sensation. When it came she cried out, and tears welled up in her eyes. Nothing had ever _hurt_ like that before. “I said…yes!” Elizabeth screamed, wiggling away from the solder while stretching out the welt. His boot rammed into her side and she grew dizzy.

“And that was the first step,” said Comstock coolly. She could barely make out his face through the tears, but couldn’t see any of the love for her he professed to have. “Pain can be a fine instructor.”

Elizabeth did her best to stay still and breathe through the stinging from her left hip to the right side of her waist. _Don’t move, don’t cry. Booker, think of him_. She shut her eyes and pictured him kneeling next to her, his face full of empathy, just like after Daisy. What would he say now? _Just hold on_.

“You are the miracle child, Elizabeth,” Comstock preached through the microphone. The speakers rang so loudly it felt as though the room was shaking. “Your mother carried you for only seven days, you are God’s blessing unto Columbia.”

“ _Liar_ ,” she hissed through her teeth. “You _stole_ me—“

 _Crack_.

Elizabeth fell to her side, her arms twisting awkwardly against the bindings. Booker held her head in his lap and stroked her hair silently. She couldn’t stifle a sob.

“Below the mid-back,” the prophet ordered sharply. “You _are_ the miracle child. All of Columbia will look to you for guidance when you take up my mantle. You will lead them against the Sodom Below.” Elizabeth chewed her lip and focused on the imagined feel of Booker’s fingers running down her face. “You will learn from this… _indiscretion_ , but they must never know it even happened. And you will rise above the licentious inclination of your sex!”

Booker was humming the hymn they’d played in Shantytown. It sounded much sadder coming from him. Elizabeth wept into his knee as another lash landed on her exposed side, wrapping around from just under her breast to the back of her hip. She curled her legs up, making herself small, and earned another kick for her trouble. _Make him stop, Booker_ , she pleaded internally, wrists chafing from the rope around them.

 _Just hold on_.

* * *

“Hello, dear.”

 _Shit_. Elizabeth could have sworn she’d woken up early, giving her some semblance of privacy. The blanket covered her and she faced the wall, leading Ruth to believe she was still asleep.

“Rise and shine, Elizabeth,” she cooed, approaching the mat where she slept. Elizabeth yanked her hand out from between her legs and rolled over, pulling at the blanket to ensure everything was covered. “Are you ill? You’re sweating quite a bit, and you look flushed.”

Elizabeth could feel her heart pounding in her chest and a throbbing further down. She’d been so _close_ , too. “J-just hot, is all,” she excused herself meekly.

Ruth cocked an eyebrow and set down the basin full of soapy water she’d been carrying. “Then perhaps a blanket isn’t the best idea,” she replied half-accusingly. “I’ve brought you some fresh underclothes, hand yours over. There’s time for a bath before your morning lesson.”

Her thighs slipped against each other under the blanket and Elizabeth stretched exaggeratedly, hoping to conceal her attempts at drying them against the fabric. Ruth tapped her foot impatiently. Elizabeth shimmied out of the garments, realizing too late there was nothing she could do about the smell. She thrust them into Ruth’s arms and pushed past her to get to the basin. The nurse, usually so quick to start a new errand, remained uncharacteristically still. Elizabeth took the rag on the side of the basin and soaked it thoroughly, hoping Ruth would leave the cell before discovering her latest “sin”.

“You…” Ruth broke off and gazed at the naked girl in front of her with a horrified expression.

 _Hmm, if she recognizes the scent, she must not be so pure after all_ , Elizabeth thought scornfully, sliding the cloth up and down her arms and staring a hole into the ground. Self-pleasure was never mentioned in any book she’d read, and she could only assume it lay far outside the realm of socially acceptable practices. Elizabeth finally raised her head and shot an unruly look in the nurse’s direction, silently daring her to make a comment.

“Just…get ready,” Ruth snapped, flinging the fresh clothing to the ground and holding their soiled counterparts far from herself.

There would be a punishment, Elizabeth didn’t doubt that. She traced a finger down her abdomen along the latest addition. That lashing had felt particularly brutal against the softer flesh of her stomach, and it had only been given yesterday. She hoped they’d wait a few days before “chastising” her again.

 _A few days_? The rag fell from her hands with a _plop_ in the basin. Elizabeth curled over the side of it, letting the cool metal press against her brow. _I’m not giving up on him, I just_ …Booker was coming, of course he was. But three periods and come and gone, and she was tired of going to bed every night disappointed. _He’ll be here…soon. Just...probably not today._

It felt an awful lot like she was betraying him.

She took up the rag again and pressed it to her stomach, wincing at the pressure on the bruises and welts. She closed her eyes and let Booker take it from her, cleaning her in tender circles. The kiss he pressed between her shoulder blades felt real enough, and Elizabeth could practically _hear_ him breathe her name in her ear. Her fingers— _his_ fingers—returned to the apex of her thighs and she sighed, perhaps too loudly. It wasn’t enough, never enough, but it was all she had.

* * *

Booker came to her that night, as he did most nights. It always felt so real, but Elizabeth always knew it was a dream, even as it happened. She didn’t mind. This time he was at her cell, yanking at the bars that served as her door. She ran to meet him, free of any pain from exhaustion, or hunger, or _penance_. Her arms were at his neck and his were at her thighs, plucking her up from the ground and carrying her to the nearest wall, just like that morning in Emporia after she’d shaved his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered between hasty kisses on her neck. “I should have been here—“

“You _are_ here,” Elizabeth moaned, ripping at his clothes. Somehow the garments simply disappeared, without him ever lifting his arms. When she looked down, hers were missing, too. She enjoyed the contrast of the cool brick at her back and the fiery warmth she was holding onto, both between her arms and between her legs. There was no ache from the whippings or the beatings—they’d never happened in the first place. There was only him. “Booker, _please_.”

His face was buried between her shoulder and neck, his hands roaming everywhere and leaving hot trails on her skin. She clung to his frame and shivered as his touch grew colder. The stubble at her throat became coarser, longer, and wounds she wasn’t supposed to _have_ opened at his fingertips. Elizabeth tried to squirm out of the embrace, but he had her pinned against the wall. A deep chuckle vibrated against her skin before Zachary Comstock raised his head from her throat to smile at her.

“Hello, dear.”


	4. Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place immediately after Elizabeth's liberation from the operating theater.

Booker DeWitt got into his first fist-fight at the age of six years old—and even then, he was big enough to hold his own against a boy three years his senior. His mother admonished him, but the local boys knew from then on to leave him alone. Violence had been one of the only things to ever come naturally to him, making the military seem like a good fit. He'd had his share of losses and broken bones, but no one could doubt his skill when it came to dealing with an opponent.

Verbal arguments were another story.

"We are _not_ stopping."

Elizabeth scowled indignantly as she brushed past him, making for the door to the courtyard outside Comstock House. She knelt down to pick the lock and wobbled precariously. Booker knew nothing of this "rogue-ish" art, but noticed her fingers seemed clumsier than usual as they fumbled around the hair pin. She was clearly exhausted.

"Only for a bit, just a short rest," he promised, wincing when the hairpin broke and she smashed her fist into the lock in frustration.

"Do you have another airship I don't know about?" snapped Elizabeth. "If we don't get out there _right now_ Comstock could completely disappear!"

Booker hesitated, then gingerly laid his hand over her fist, still pressed against the challenging lock. "He won't leave the city, and we will find him. But you're not fit to—"

"To _what?_ " Her snarl could barely be heard over the sound of a tear ripping open and a torrential storm of lightning and thunder opening over their heads. Whether it was purposeful intimidation, like the tornado, or an involuntary emotional response, Booker wasn't sure. "If you don't want to come—"

"God _damn_ it, Elizabeth!" he sputtered through the rain. "You think I want that son of a bitch to live? He and the skyhook are gonna get _real_ acquainted by the time I'm finished, got it? But I need your help to do it, and I can't have my partner fatigued in combat!"

Her hair was plastered to her face, hiding most of her expression, but her fist relaxed under his hand. The tear zipped up as abruptly as it opened and goose bumps cropped up on his skin where the rain had landed. Progress, for sure, but this fight wasn't over yet. "How can you be so sure we'll find him?"

He wasn't. "You'll have to trust me." Maybe the Luteces would pop in and be of actual assistance. Booker had never been the type to plan things out too thoroughly—experience had taught him to spend more time adapting for when shit inevitably hit the fan. Besides, they'd made it past impossible odds countless times already. Finding a prophet in this hellstack of a city wouldn't be their most impressive accomplishment.

"I'm not even that tired," she protested stubbornly.

"You've got a gaping wound in your back." Tact fell neatly into the group of Booker DeWitt's many weaknesses. "At least let me patch that up." She raked a careless hand through her hair, revealing a mouth set into a stubborn line. "Please, Elizabeth. I can't get this done without you. And I need you in the right state, so just…let me fucking _help_ you already."

Elizabeth would have laughed if she hadn't fallen out of the habit. Of course even a simple, polite request was beyond him. In a way it was comforting, however—it really _was_ him, he really _was_ there. She was no less furious, but the rational side of her could see his point. The rage that had been building up in her for months was hard to ignore, but as Elizabeth took note of the strain in her limbs and the heaviness of her head, she had to admit that her internal burning fire was more likely to scald them than the enemy. _I can't even pick this stupid lock, how could I ever toss him ammunition?_

"You're asking me to spend even more time in this place." She couldn't keep a last rebuttal from slipping out. "If you knew…if you had _any idea_ what they…" Her mouth went dry before she could finish and her nails dug into her palms. _Whore. Blasphemer. Failure_. Elizabeth jerked her head, trying to silence Comstock's voice from within.

"There's no other way," Booker replied curtly. Shit, this would be so much easier if she would just stop _trembling_. _It doesn't matter what happened before_ , he thought brusquely, as if this wasn't the only person he cared about. Caring got you killed. _Comstock House is too isolated to get anywhere else before nightfall. She'll have to just deal with it_. "You're about to collapse as it is, we won't make it twenty yards if we leave now."

 _Fuck you, Booker_. The thought came as instantly as the guilt did for thinking it. If it weren't for him she'd still be strapped to a chair with a needle inside of her—but where the hell had he been for the last half year? If he had come sooner, maybe the thought of staying even five more minutes in this dressed-up prison wouldn't make her nauseated. She was suddenly grateful they hadn't fed her today.

Elizabeth scanned the rest of the wing; she'd never been to this part of the mansion before. Perhaps she could pretend they were somewhere else entirely. The nearest door on the left was as promising as any, and she started shuffling toward it. Her skirt got caught between her legs—when did walking become so _difficult_? Booker's arm hooked under her shoulder before she hit the ground. At least he had the grace to refrain from an "I told you so". The two greatest threats to Columbia hobbled awkwardly across the hallway, and Elizabeth thanked the god she'd come to loathe when the door opened without resistance. It was either a sparse guestroom or a lavish servant's quarters, but it had a bed—a _real_ bed—and she managed the last few steps on her own in a rush to fall onto it. The bounce of the springs caught her by surprise, causing her to yelp and Booker to cock back the hammer of his pistol.

"I'm fine…sorry." Elizabeth leaned back on her elbows, stretching out her limbs and taking stock of which body parts hurt the most, so as to avoid relying on them too much in the next firefight. With Booker DeWitt, there was always a next firefight. As usual, her lower torso ached more prominently than any other area. Bending for cover would be a chore. Booker busied himself with looting the armoire for spare change, a small med kit, and— _eugh_ —a piece of long-forgotten cake. The Sodom Below had some questionable nutrition safety standards.

When Booker finished his search he hesitated, then sat beside her on the bed and gestured to her sleeves. "Your jacket…can you…" _You mind stripping for me after god knows how long you've been tortured by the psychopath who kidnapped you?_ He found himself craving a tussle with one of the Founders soldiers, or a strong drink, or both. Elizabeth complied, wincing when the fabric pulled at her back. It came away with a dark stain. There wasn't too much blood, but the puncture was deep—he was surprised she didn't scream louder when he pulled the needle out.

"How long," Elizabeth started, running her hands up and down her arms to keep warm. The rain was slowly dripping out of her hair, and she wished she had exercised better control earlier. "H-How long has it been for you since I was…gone."

Booker took his time cleaning the wound as he fumbled for the right words. "I chased after you and didn't stop, so…half a day, maybe more." It had felt like much longer. He reached for the bandage when she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. He looped an arm around her, only then realizing how cold she was. "Hey, hey, shh, come on, it's okay now."

Sweet nothings put Elizabeth more on edge. Comstock often waited until she broke down to speak through the glass in a soft, comforting, despicable voice, promising her the love and forgiveness of the lord. It only taught her to stop crying in front of him altogether. She wasn't quite sure why she was starting now, or what answer she was expecting, or what Booker could have possibly said that wouldn't provoke a sob. But the feeling of his fingers brushing against her cheek satisfied a craving she didn't know she had. No one had touched Elizabeth with their bare hands in months, and never with any tenderness. She cupped one hand around his and the other around his jaw, gasping a little less with each passing moment.

Booker was different than she remembered—but how could that be? He'd only aged hours. There were crow's feet that she could have sworn never bordered his eyes, and a tiny mole on his cheekbone she should have recalled from shaving his face. His nose couldn't have been that crooked when she saw him last, but it didn't show any signs of being recently injured. _I've fantasized about him every day for months, why don't I remember this?_ She wondered if that was what happened when only knowing someone for half a week before making mental love to them for several months. Perhaps there was a study done on this phenomenon in one of the more liberal journals by a less prudish scholar. Booker's thumb brushed over her remaining tears, and Elizabeth decided it didn't matter if the little details seemed different. This Booker DeWitt was here, and he was hers.

Booker's first response to her kiss was a confused grunt, then a short second of savoring it, and finally an abrupt retreat. The way she embraced him was desperate and pained, nothing like how she'd acted just this morning—something wasn't right with her. Her shoulders felt so small under his hands as he pushed her back. Her eyes were still watery, and her chin quivered despite her clenched jaw. "'Lis'beth, you…don't wanna do this now."

"Fuck you, Booker". There was no shame this time, not when voicing it out loud. The wound in her back throbbed painfully. "I've been told what I _want_ here every day, that I want the grace of God, that I want to repent for my wickedness, that I want to lead my flock against the Sodom Below, but do you have any _earthly_ idea what I want, what I've wanted _every_ single day since Emporia?" Booker, taken aback by her outburst, blinked as neutrally as possible. She leaned in, grabbing a fistful of his still-damp hair and pulling him toward her. " _You._ "

Booker swallowed hard. The stammering, blushing girl he had bedded only last night was gone, and in her place was an angry, lusty woman—the two key characteristics for any good one night stand, he thought in spite of himself. Her fingers were tugging at his roots, hard enough that he couldn't tell if she wanted to sleep with him or beat him. _Ain't in her right mind, the hell did they do to her?_

"Look, I'm, I'm sorry that I didn't get here sooner," he murmured, doing his best to ignore the stirring in his groin. "I couldn't control… _when_ the tears took me, else you never would have been here in the first place." He watched a single drop of water drip down her nose and steeled himself against wiping it away. The sound of her breathy moans from earlier echoed in his ears—he wondered if Elizabeth would sound different now with an ardor fueled by rage. _Jesus, DeWitt, is that all you can think about? Girl's been through hell, find out what happened. And then…maybe..._ "How long were you here?"

Her grip on his hair softened into a caress and the desire in her eyes faded with fatigue. "Seven…about seven months," Elizabeth muttered, dropping her gaze to his chest. It swelled in anger—she didn't need to see what his expression looked like. Saying it out loud brought on a new wave of exhaustion, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. "I-I _hate_ him, Booker," she croaked, her words muffled by his shirt. "God, I just…I just…"

Booker stayed silent and cupped the back of her head, smoothing out the damp hair. How the _fuck_ had seven months gone by? The old woman—the old _Elizabeth_ —why did she send him this late? What was the fucking _point_ in her suffering for over half a year? _Comstock, be pissed at Comstock, not her_ , he thought bitterly, moving his fingers almost mechanically through the wet locks. _Keep her alive, then kill him, then get her to Paris, then…_ Shit, he sure hoped Elizabeth proved better at long-term planning then he did. After a few moments her shaking subsided, but she clung to him anyway. Booker resented his libido for not being dampened by her tears _. Could help her forget, get her shivering in pleasure 'stead of pain—_ she was still in pain. _Fix it, focus on the task at hand, nothing else_. Booker carefully reached for the med kit and tucked her head under his chin to get a better view of the puncture between her shoulder blades. He sighed in relief—it didn't look like it needed stitches.

Elizabeth hissed through her teeth at the pressure on the wound but stayed as still as she could, and—as she had become wont to do whenever experiencing pain—thought of Booker. He smelled bloodier than usual—or maybe she simply lost her tolerance for the odor. His stubble scraped against her forehead as he worked on her back, and she closed her eyes to briefly relive what was only this morning for him. By now she could scarcely separate memory from fantasy, but he _had_ been gentle, as gentle as he was being now, that much was certain. Even when he finished applying the bandage he ran his fingers down her shoulders soothingly. Dusk was closing in and the light was fading through the single window, but she could see the tent in his trousers clearly enough. Her hands were bunched around the sides of his shirt, but it would only take a quick slide and zip to—

God, what was _wrong_ with her? They'd narrowly escaped Comstock's forces with their lives— _again_ —and she couldn't decide if she was furious or miserable or aroused. Surely she hadn't been this muddled before Songbird brought her here, even after the night in Emporia. Elizabeth wished it was as easy as picking an emotion and sticking with it, or shutting them down all together. Anger would be the most useful when she finally faced her "father", but it only came in bursts, and it wouldn't help her rest. Sadness made her feel weak, and she'd had enough of that for a lifetime. Giving into desire was the most appealing, but because of some spurt of propriety Booker was against that. Elizabeth clenched her fingers around his shirt again and forced them up instead of down, until they curled past his back and over his shoulders. She lifted her head from his chest so that her lips were almost touching his ear. "I…I _missed_ you." It was one of the only truths she was sure of.

Booker shuddered at the sensation of her breath on his skin and felt his restraint abandoning him. "I missed you, too," he reciprocated tensely, but honestly. Against his better judgment, he let his hand slip down from her wound to tug at the small of her back and pull her closer, causing her to cry out in pain. Elizabeth slid out of his embrace and wrapped her arms around herself, a fluid motion that spoke of too much practice. "What's wrong?" She shook her head mutely and hunched over, as if there was a desperate need to make herself small and unnoticeable. Tiny spots of dark red had blossomed through the fabric of her corset. "Elizabeth…what's wrong with your back?"

"Please… _please_ don't get angry," she pleaded quietly, her voice high like a child's. Her gaze was fixed to her lap and her nails dug into her arms hard enough to leave a mark. She had her back to him now, and even over the curve of her spine he could see the bobbing motion of her head. She was rocking.

Booker knew his rage could get out of control—the drinking and gambling had helped mitigate that somewhat—but couldn't remember her ever being afraid of that. She'd never been afraid of _him_. He gently set a hand over one of hers, which was clutching at her bicep. "Can I take a look?" The rocking stopped and a little noise came from her throat, but it wasn't a clear affirmation. Booker laid his free hand feather-lightly on the lacing of her corset. "Elizabeth? Is this okay?"

She inhaled sharply, the breath hiccupping in her throat, and then went still as she held it in. She kept her muscles so taut it must have hurt, and only when the need to breathe overwhelmed her did she wheeze out a response. "Yes. Okay."

Booker had to force himself not to undo the garment too quickly. He wasn't sure what to expect, and visions of blood and bruises swam through his mind. Despite his attempts at tenderness, every slight tug provoked another yelp from Elizabeth, until it became clear she was weeping again. _Goddamnit. Focus, DeWitt_. At least he couldn't see her face. When the ribbons were completely loose he eased his fingers underneath the bottom edge, trying to ignore her pained hissing. "Ready?"

Elizabeth couldn't rip her mind away from the intake examination she'd undergone when she first arrived at the mansion. _This isn't the same. This is Booker_. _And I'm…sullied_. She cringed—that had been one of Comstock's many insults. A part of her was so _tired_ of trying to reject the indoctrination. Her eyes ached from the crying and for the first time she wished that Booker wasn't there, that she could simply curl up into a ball far away from anyone and everyone. A particularly fierce sob burst from her lips when she felt his fingers dip between the corset and the fabric of her skirt. The suffocating garb now felt like the only thing in the world holding her together. She felt foolish now for never considering how Booker would react when he found out, as if she could live the rest of her life without ever taking it off. She'd only been thinking of how the rescue went in her dreams, where the lashes were never dealt in the first place.

Booker trained his eyes on the garment, watching it carefully as it moved up her spine and over her head, and laid it down almost reverently on the bedspread. Only then did he let his gaze be drawn to the welts. They criss-crossed, zig-zagged, arched all through the expanse of her lower back, from the corset's upper edge to down past the boundary of her skirt. Whoever did this wanted to keep it hidden. The air seemed to go out of the room as he compared the oldest stripes to the most recent—some were almost entirely healed into barely noticeable discolorations, others were only days old. A few of those had blistered over and burst from rubbing against the corset, and they oozed redly.

Booker remembered running his hands along this very part of her, just _last night_ for God's sake, reveling in the smoothness and warmth. Now there were more scars than skin.

"What the _fuck!_ "


	5. Strength

Elizabeth jumped when Booker moved off the bed, the springs bouncing from the rapid shift in weight. She whipped her head around as he stormed to the desk on the other side of the room and grabbed his signature melee weapon. "W-What are you _doing?_ " she stammered.

"What do you _think?_ " Booker snarled, testing the skyhook for good measure before veering toward the door. "I'll be right back, just…just stay here!"

" _No!_ "

Booker had almost gotten a grip on the doorknob before the wind pushed him, stumbling, to the back of the room. He caught himself on the wall and jumped at the sight of racing automobiles blocking the threshold, but…they were unlike any he'd ever seen on Earth. They were half as tall, maybe less, and zoomed faster than… _anything_. The ones closest to the tear were only blurs, the ones furthest—was it some sort of horse track?—zipped by too fast to get a decent look. Cheering could be heard from deep inside the tear, and any attempt to approach it sent Booker reeling back toward the wall.

"What happened to not being able to do this without me?"

Elizabeth was standing over him now, her hair flying in the inter-dimensional breeze. He could see the drying wetness on her face, but her eyes were chips of ice. Booker swallowed hard when he saw how the welts extended to her stomach, mixed unevenly with smears of bruises that could only come from a long series of beatings. There was no shaking now. She stood firm as any statue, half-naked and completely enraged. The air around them felt electric; all his hair seemed to stand on end.

Booker had never been more terrified.

With a flick of her wrist the tear closed in on itself, but the static feel to the room persisted. "Comstock is _mine_ ," Elizabeth seethed acidly, hovering over him with a presence no girl her size should have. The open welts on her back ached, the humiliation of her "penance" being seen burned, but nothing could compare to the _insult_ of anyone else dispatching the prophet. "You were gone, Booker. For months. He might have tried to kill you, but what he did to me…He's _mine_. Do you understand?"

Booker was at a loss for words. This whole job started out so simple, but now…he couldn't even remember the address in New York he was supposed to take her to in the first place. And now this teenager—was she even that anymore?—was the only person in the world who mattered, and she wouldn't let him make this right. She'd been whipped like cattle, for Christ's sake, how could she _ever_ want to see Comstock's face again? _The scars go deeper than the skin. She's…turning into him_. Booker straightened himself up and slowly reached out for her hand, with all the care of reaching into a lion's cage. Elizabeth's gaze never softened, but her fingers spread for his without resistance.

"Okay," Booker murmured cautiously. "All yours. But you're not going in alone, you hear? Never." Support, that's what she needed. A brother-in-arms to have her back, to remind her that something existed outside the enemy.

Elizabeth searched his face, as if prepared to jump on the slightest hint of a lie. Apparently she found none, because the atmosphere in the room shifted back to normal and the glacial quality in her eyes melted. She looked down at their joined hands and ran her thumb over the fabric from her old skirt that dressed his wound. She suddenly felt very tired. One of the fresher stripes near her navel throbbed and she pressed her free hand against it, groaning through the pain.

"Let me…let me clean you up a bit, okay?" Booker was hungry for violence—that self-destructive solace that had followed him since childhood—and the idea of tenderness railed against his instincts. But it wasn't about him, now. It was about her. Maybe he was wired to always think with his fists first, but Elizabeth…she could go beyond that, if she could just get past this. Besides, if he went off now to indulge in his more brutal impulses, Elizabeth would probably push him through a tear off the flying city all together. She leaned against him, letting him guide her back to the bed.

Elizabeth bled easily, making it look worse than it was. A ribbon of silver in the corner of the room caught her eye. _Wish fulfilled_ , she thought darkly. She opened the tear with some effort, then pointed Booker in the direction of the newly-arrived basin and rags. He grunted and hauled it over, somehow managing not to spill any of the water. _He must be exhausted too, but he never lets it show_. _What would it take to break a man like him?_

Booker clenched his teeth when she tensed under his touch—these wounds only opened because he touched her in the first place. He rubbed the cloth against her back with all the gentleness he could muster, but the tiny spasms of pain came all the same. To her credit, she never made a sound. A sight like this made it easy to forget his promise. _I'll gut the son of a bitch_. Booker reached around her awkwardly to wipe any blood away from her stomach, freezing when she sighed. Elizabeth leaned back— _relaxed_ , even—into the necessary embrace, although it must have hurt. _Everything she's been through, and she still wants to be held_. Even setting aside the strange business with the tears, Booker doubted he would ever understand her.

"They don't hurt that much," she whispered— _best add mind reading to her many talents_ , he thought. "When nothing pulls on them, anyway. The corset just…"

Her belly was clean, the bruises could be seen unobstructed. Booker took a deep breath to ground himself. "Why'd they make you keep wearin' it?" The job was done, he ought to push her away to dress the open welts. Ought to, anyway. He couldn't help but notice her breasts remained unblemished, and his stomach turned—he didn't know if that was better or a sign that something worse had happened.

"Hairshirt," she muttered softly. The back of Booker's right hand ached under its dressing. "To remind me…to punish me. And he liked the idea of me looking like…my _mother_." Anything to better endear her to the citizens of Columbia.

"Punish you for what?" Some nonsense out of scripture, no doubt. The girl had a moral compass like no other. Punish was just a sanctimonious word for torture.

"For debasing myself with the false shepherd, among other…infractions."

Elizabeth winced—there _had_ to be a better way to say that. For becoming intimate with her rescuer. For making love to her only friend. For fucking Booker DeWitt. Yet Comstock's version was the first to slip out. Maybe some of the brainwashing had stuck after all. Maybe Booker had come too late.

"They checked me, when I first came, to see if I was still...he thought I was raped, he…he assumed it happened in Shantytown, and threatened to burn it all down…" she paused to take a shaky breath. She was grateful Booker's hands were still on her, one holding the damp rag to her stomach, the other on her shoulder, but he sat impossibly still. "I couldn't…I _had_ to tell him, Booker."

That settled it, then. Elizabeth would never so much as breathe the same _air_ as Comstock again, Booker would make sure of that. The prophet would die in the most gruesome manner at DeWitt's disposal and she'd be in Paris by tomorrow's end, or wherever fucking else she liked. He forgot about their deal, forgot about the way she nearly made him piss himself in fear not ten minutes ago, forgot about everything besides the scars in front of him. Straying from that risked reflection on the role he played in her "punishment"—and that downward spiral required more whiskey than Booker had on hand.

"Can you…lean forward a bit?"

Elizabeth complied, expecting something… _more_. She wasn't sure what; none of this was going how she imagined it. Her reveries of their reunion had more constants than variables—namely, Comstock's corpse thrown off of Columbia, the Vox rebellion peacefully resolved, and her legs wrapped around Booker's waist. Baring her penance while Comstock roamed free had never been part of the plan. She waited pensively as he finished dressing the open welts and fiddled with her thimble. At least Booker wasn't trying to make another solo charge against the prophet.

When he was done Booker hesitated before slipping out of his vest. She needed to wear something, for his sake if not hers. The contrasts in her skin, from soft ivory to coarse garnet, provoked too many conflicting feelings. He let his suspenders slide off his shoulders and made short work of his button down shirt, then held it out to her. "Here."

Elizabeth accepted the offering silently and pulled it around herself. Her head was feeling heavier by the second, and the buttons were proving to be as difficult as the lock she failed to open. It was mostly dry from the rain, at least. She rolled the sleeves back several times just to see her hands, and pondered on how she must look in an over-sized male shirt paired with a once-elegant long skirt and boots. Ridiculous, and uncomfortable. Her quick exhale was the closest she'd come to laughing in months. She kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of the skirt and stockings, leaving only her drawers.

Booker heard the rustle of fabric and planted a vigor trap with far more concentration than necessary at the threshold, keeping his back to Elizabeth. "Try to get some sleep," he called out, reloading the carbine for good measure and tucking the pistol in the back of his pants.

"Aren't you…?"

He glanced over and sighed. Elizabeth had already crawled under the sheets and kept to one side to save room for him. "I should keep watch," Booker said, hearing the bullshit as it passed his lips. If they were going to be attacked it would have happened by now. Comstock had most likely mobilized his remaining forces to stay close to him for protection. It was the idea of lying next to a girl who was flagellated on his account that put DeWitt on guard.

"Booker… _please_." The heat in her lower abdomen had cooled with exhaustion, but the fact remained that no one had touched Elizabeth without gloves in seven months. Feeling the warmth of another human being would be a welcome change. She never yearned for it in the tower, because she'd never had it; Booker was the one who changed that. "You can do that from here, can't you?"

"That's not a good idea," Booker replied, wary of provoking her wrath. He expected her to curse him again, and hoped it wouldn't come to opening another tear. With the scars out of sight and Elizabeth back in his clothing, the same sense of longing from this morning was slowly smothering him.

"You need to sleep, too," Elizabeth argued— _no surprise there_ , he thought wearily. Was there anything they _did_ agree on? "And I'd feel safer with you next to me." Booker nearly snorted—as protective as he was of her, the girl was plenty capable of holding her own, provided no mechanical birds or mind-altering procedures were involved.

_If she touches me, I'm damned_ , Booker mused—as if he wasn't already. Songbird had taken her so soon after they'd resumed the journey to the mansion this morning, and after that his only focus was on getting her back; there hadn't been time to think about the new nature of their relationship. Hell, he didn't want to think about it at all. There were too many questions and complications, and that was _before_ Elizabeth had endured months of suffering—a crime in which he certainly couldn't claim innocence.

Booker wanted her, that was one of the precious few truths he had. He wanted to see Paris—well, see her seeing Paris—and listen to her chatter about all that artsy crap she loved so much. He wanted to keep her safe and close, to watch those blue eyes dazzle at a world that had long struck him as mundane and cruel. He wanted to look at her in a dress that wasn't covered in blood—and then rip it off her. As of this morning, he'd thought she _might_ have wanted those things, too. Now, as much as he cared for her, Booker had to admit he was clueless as to what was really going on inside that pretty head—and Elizabeth's rapid mood swings weren't helping. The current look of pleading on her face was glazed with a sweetness he'd sorely missed, and he wanted to encourage it before it disappeared _. If she touches me, if she means to bed me, I'll give in…_ Jesus, wouldn't that make it worse? _Fuck it. Do what she asks._

Elizabeth was relieved when, after a long pause, Booker pulled out his pistol and walked toward the bed to slide it between the mattress and frame. He toed off his shoes and undid his belt, keeping his eyes firmly set on the floor as he did so. He still wore a thin undershirt that clung to his torso, and she felt a stirring inside her. _Not now. You can barely move. Rest_. She rolled over and shut her eyes, appreciating the deep breaths she could now take without the corset. Booker's shirt was filthy—she could smell the blood, and knew hardly any of it was his—but the familiar material was comforting and didn't pull too hard against her skin.

Booker settled on his back and finally let himself feel the ache in every muscle. _Hell of a week_. Thankfully Elizabeth had her back to him, and the covers pulled over them hid most of her from view. Now all he had to do was not spoon her and they'd be fine. Well, she'd be fine. _She's gotta be_. _Wouldn't have made it this far if she wasn't tough as steel._ He closed his eyes, acutely aware of the few inches of space that separated them, and sighed in frustration.

* * *

Most dreams weren't this vivid. Elizabeth could feel the individual folds in the sheet under her legs and the steady up-and-down motion of Booker's chest under her arm. He was sleeping, looking almost serene in the pale sunlight. She dragged her palm down the fabric of his undershirt, willing it to disappear. It stubbornly continued to exist. The motion roused him, light sleeper that he was, and his fingers coiled around her wrist in an instant.

The pacing of this dream was…strange.

Booker stared at her face, his expression annoyingly neutral. His grip softened but he didn't let her go. She tilted her head up from his shoulder, accidentally meeting him halfway when he kissed her. His face was warmer, rougher than usual. Elizabeth mewled into his mouth and was rewarded with a firm caress on her thigh, up past where her drawers ended. She twisted to adjust, to fit better in his grasp, but the pain made her pause and—

There shouldn't _be_ any pain. Booker DeWitt was not a soft man in any sense of the word, and even through two layers of clothing his side jutted into one of the bruises near her navel. Bruises that weren't supposed to be there. Elizabeth froze. _This is when the nightmare starts_. She waited for him to transform, for the white beard to grow out and his touch to grow cold…but the only change was Booker's confused expression.

"Are…are you real?"

Booker felt three fingertips and a thimble skim down his face, and for a moment he saw himself in a library. "Yes," he murmured resolutely. Her eyes clouded over—he'd seen that look before, he'd _had_ that look before. Few men left the 7th Cavalry Regiment without it. "Hey, Elizabeth. Stay with me."

She was awake. Elizabeth brushed her finger over the crow's feet, circled the mole, traced the outline of his nose—she remembered this. She remembered _everything_. Elizabeth shifted on top of him, the friction rubbing against the contusions on her stomach. Seven months. She was out, it was a new day, but why was she still so afraid? She pressed her hand back to his chest and focused on the solid thudding of his heart, wishing her pulse would slow to his.

"I thought you were a dream," she mumbled _. I thought you were a nightmare_. "It happened a lot here."

"You dreamed I rescued you?" Booker queried, immediately regretting the word choice. It made him sound like a knight or something.

Elizabeth replaced the hand on his chest with her ear. _Thud-thud_. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Sometimes we were…distracted." The blush stung at her complexion—when was the last time she'd done _that_? Booker hadn't moved his hand from her thigh yet, and she didn't want him to. _I'm free, and I can do whatever I wish. I wished for him, and he came._ Even with the surges of timidity Booker inspired in her, his presence sheltered her with a sense of security. It wasn't the weapons or vigors or his sheer knack for bloodshed, either—there was a bulletproof persistence to the man that conquered anything daring to oppose him.

Booker sighed heavily, watching the mess of brown hair move with his breath. He could recognize that lilt in any woman's voice, and it only meant one thing. His thumb moved of its own accord and sketched small circles on the back of her thigh. Her legs parted in response. _Jesus_. He slipped his hand under the hem of his shirt, from the swell of her rear to the valley of her back. The roughness of her skin around the dressings made his temper flare. Booker jerked his hands away from her to press his palms against his eyes, exhaling as steadily as he could.

Elizabeth smirked as she heard his pulse quicken—she didn't expect to ever see him blush, but it was satisfying to see any sign of her effect on the ever-detached DeWitt. She tensed on instinct when his fingers brushed over her scars, but it didn't hurt. He wasn't _trying_ to hurt her—that would take some getting used to. Elizabeth frowned when she felt his hands slip away from her and lifted her head.

"Booker?" she murmured softly. Her neck ached at this angle, and she planted her knees on either side of him to sit up. He gasped when Elizabeth centered some of her weight on his groin and bucked his hips against her— _much better than a blush_ , she thought smugly.

" _Shit_ , Elizabeth!" Booker growled, pulling his hands from his eyes and promptly regretting it. He hadn't noticed the sloppy way she'd buttoned his shirt, leaving revealing gaps in the fabric. The neckline hung well past the curve of her breasts, her nipples only just hidden. Elizabeth looked completely disheveled—and entirely too tempting.

She bit her lip nervously at the tone in his voice. "Does it still work if I'm on top of you?" she asked curiously, applying what experience she _did_ have to the theory of an untested position.

The look in her eyes made something in Booker ache—it was the same look she had when cracking a Vox cipher, or determining what to toss him next in combat. The spark was purposeful and excited. His gaze was drawn to a patch of her exposed stomach that was almost as dark as his shirt, raising his ire even further. "How can you _want_ this?" he hissed. "After what Comstock _did_ to you!"

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably, provoking another groan from the man beneath her. "Don't say his name, not here," she muttered numbly. _I don't want to think about him right now, Booker, can't you see that? Can't you give me this much?_

Booker wanted nothing more than to show her that yes, her being on top _would_ work, and reward her for being so clever—but no girl with any sense wanted to bed a man after being tortured for over half a year _because_ of that man. "You were beaten and whipped on account of me," he snapped, gripping fistfuls of the sheets to avoid gripping her. "If we hadn't—if _I_ hadn't—"

The plushness of her lips flattened into a firm line. "You didn't order the lashes," she replied stiffly. "You didn't know Songbird would come." _You didn't show up for seven months_. Elizabeth tried to stuff the mental anger down— _he didn't mean to come so late, for him it was half a day_. The feelings of hurt and abandonment persisted all the same. She didn't want them, she wanted to feel _him_ and forget about everything else; why was Booker making it so difficult? "And even though it happened, I'm…I'm glad we were…together."

Booker clenched his jaw when he felt her fingers cupping it. "When I was… _repenting_ …it was like you were there, comforting me," Elizabeth confessed as her cheeks reddened. No psychology periodical she'd read had ever indicated hallucinations were normal, but she _needed_ him to understand. "And when I was lonely, I could pretend you were holding me. And even when…when I had my doubts that you were even…I could still _remember_ you, Booker. I would have lost my mind without those memories." Perhaps she already had. " _Please_ , don't shut me out now."

Booker was dumbfounded. This woman had every reason to turn against him, and yet she continued to straddle him, afraid of _losing_ him. It didn't make a lick of sense—the most powerful being he'd ever encountered was depending entirely on a small-time detective when she didn't need to. Elizabeth could just as soon kill him as kiss him, but her expression made it seem like _he_ was the one in control of her future. Might be Comstock really had driven her insane. Booker considered the notion and found it didn't matter—most women he'd met were at least a little crazy, after all, and none of them compared to Elizabeth. She was more than worth the mood swings and occasional indoor rainstorm.

He eased himself up into a sitting position, cradling her close so she was flush against him. "Hey, I ain't goin' nowhere," Booker promised soberly, angling his forehead to brush hers. "Got it? I'm with you as long as you want."

Elizabeth curled her legs around his back to pull him nearer. _This_ was more like what she had imagined before. "And that's what you want?" she asked earnestly—though the stiffness she felt underneath her gave her a fairly good idea of his intentions. Booker, always more a man of action than words, kissed her with a fervor that made his intentions even clearer.


	6. Partners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter takes place immediately after the drowning at the end of the game.

The world was swimming, blurring, dancing. Even though Booker could see the young women drowning him, all identical, all unique, he also saw a baby, a lighthouse, a bloody baptismal font. He sucked the water in, trying to picture _her_ face before the light went out one last time. The sudden pressure on his back jilted his focus. He coughed harshly and marveled at the feeling of air worming its way to his lungs. Booker's hands stretched out, scrapping at wood and rug. The sun was gone, the river was gone, _they_ were gone. Instinct prompted him to roll over onto his elbows and knees, expelling the last of the water.

 _I'm dead_ , he thought blankly, his eyes straining to adjust to the dim light. _And death is a hotel room. Huh._ His chest was burning and his clothes were soaked, chilling him to the bone. Drops of river fell from his face to the floor in a steady, tapping rhythm. Booker sucked in a breath too fast and brought on another fit of wheezing. _It's not supposed to hurt anymore, why…_

A rustle of fabric alerted him to another presence in the room. He peered at the figure by the window and slowly registered the blue skirt and jacket. God help him, it was her. Booker grabbed a nearby dresser and tried to pull himself up, still sputtering water, but his knees buckled under him and he landed with a thud. She didn't so much as turn to him. Her gaze was fixed to whatever was beyond the window.

"I couldn't," she murmured, so softly he questioned if she said anything at all. "Couldn't let them."

 _The baptism_. Booker brought his fingers to the side of his throat and felt the erratic pulse beneath the skin. He was alive— _Comstock_ was alive. No, no no no no no—

"You have to finish it," he gasped hoarsely. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Only way."

"I _can't_ ," she replied, almost pleadingly. Her fingers went to the charm on her necklace, tracing the cage he picked out for her. _She wasn't there, at the river. It wasn't her_.

He somehow stumbled to his feet and clutched at the dresser for support. The rug he'd been half-laying on was ruined by the water. "Y- _you_ said so, every world, he's there, _I'm_ there…" he trailed off into another fit of coughing, and he found himself hating his survival instinct. _I should be dead._

"I _know_. I _can't_." She took a step toward him and wiped the tears away with a sleeve. "I won't."

"You _have_ to," Booker argued, hunching over the furniture to combat the spinning. Drinking and drowning seemed to affect him much the same. She raised a hand to his shoulder and he retreated from it hastily. " _Don't_."

Hurt poured out of her eyes and he stared at the puddle he left on the floor. Shit. He felt the urge to run and fight and smoke, as if any of that could help him forget the revelations of the day. The branding on his right hand twinged under the stiff fabric of a long-abandoned skirt.

"You're all I have, Booker," she said quietly, standing on the other side of the dresser. Good, he preferred the boundary. "I can't lose you."

Despite the omniscience she had shit taste in company. "What I did to you, what I…I _will_ do to…" He left the thought hanging, unable to picture the damage his very existence caused in every world. One reality was already enough to put him in a drunken stupor for two decades, but _all_ of them…

" _You_ didn't take the baptism."

"You can't let me choose," he snapped, fighting off the nausea in the pit of his stomach. "Even before that…you don't understand—"

"The doors are open, Booker, and I understand better than you can imagine," she retorted. Her eyes were on him, but she seemed to be looking far away. "I see _everything_. Wounded Knee. Everything you… _the scalps_." A pained look flashed across her face and she stared at the wooden surface of the dresser, gripping it with white knuckles. "The youngest you ever took was thirteen years old. He had an arrow pointed at your head, and you…you could have _just_ killed him, but you…" Booker was grateful when she didn't finish.

"And you… _forgive_ that?" He—or at least this version of him—had refused absolution from God, but maybe, if it came from her…

Her voice broke, and he saw a drop of water fall from her face to the wood. "I don't know." Not the answer he was expecting from an all-knowing being. She chewed at her lip and sucked in a deep breath. "Can you forgive me for letting you live?"

His sins were hard enough to swallow, but Comstock…by saving one she saved the other. And after what he'd done to her, what he _was_ to her, how did it make sense to keep him alive? She was damning every world with one of two devils, when she had the power to end it all together. _She really has gone crazy_. Booker glanced at his holster and considered the pistol pensively.

"Booker, _don't_ ," she growled, taking a threatening step toward him. "This isn't 1890, the only life you'd be ending is this one."

"Then take me back."

" _No_."

Booker clenched his teeth, trying to fight off the shivering. He was _freezing_ , but at least it was something else to focus on. "How can you _not_ want to kill me?"

Two more tears raced down the apples of her cheeks. "A part of me does…other versions of me do, were willing to…but I _need_ you, Booker."

It couldn't just be her personal affection for him—misguided as it was—that kept him breathing, there _had_ to be a bigger, more sensible reason. "You see all these doors, then?" he asked slowly. She nodded, and it was like a shot in the gut when he realized she had Annabelle's eyes. "S-So I'm supposed to stay alive for…for what?" Was it possible to undo everything without dying? Was that even preferable?

"Whatever you like, Mr. DeWitt."

"Or rather, whatever _she_ likes."

The twin physicists—how long had they been there?—stood behind the far side of the bed, a barrier between them and the god-forsaken DeWitts. Booker might have launched himself at them if his chest wasn't still on fire and his limbs weren't tingling from the cold. As it was, he settled for throwing the most contemptuous look he could muster in their direction. "What the fuck is _wrong_ with you two? How…how could you let me _do_ all that?"

"You were offered a choice, Mr. DeWitt," Robert answered politely. "Your decision was your own. I'd say we've gone far beyond our obligations to reunite you and the girl."

"And what an _interesting_ reunion it was," Rosalind noted coolly, as if it was worth noting in a journal of scientific observations. "Our tests for variability between this reality and those before showed no distinction. We feared this trial was doomed, until the two of you _coupled_ in Emporia."

"It makes one wonder if any of the dozens of prior trials would have been improved by similar sexual relations," quipped Robert thoughtfully. "Though we've had trouble pin-pointing what brought on the girl's advances in the first place."

" _Stop!_ " Booker's knees gave out from underneath him, bringing him back to the floor. "Just…just _stop_."

He was damned, he'd always been damned, ever since Wounded Knee. Booker accepted he was bound for eternal torment; now he only wanted to _get_ there. Eighteen scalps—four of them from women—five occupied teepees burned, knocking up a sweet girl who was sympathetic to a soldier, letting her die in childbirth— _so_ much blood—assaulting countless laborers under the pretense of supporting their daughter—but _God_ did it give him a rush—ignoring that daughter for yet another night of cards, once the Pinkerton's denied him the thrill, _selling_ that daughter to fucking _strangers_ , taking on the shadiest jobs if it meant a month's rent and liquor for two decades, slaughtering hundreds of men in front of and then _fucking_ that daughter—

The last meal Booker had eaten was a box of dry cereal. It looked much worse when it came back up on the floor. He winced through the wretching—he hadn't vomited since he was a much younger, drunker man. Booker kept his head bowed, yet the twins continued their speculation.

"It seems he doesn't appreciate the success."

"I'm not sure I'd call it a success."

"They're together, brother, which is exactly what you wanted—"

"Not _this_ sort of together, that was never the intention—"

"But the fact remains that they _are_ together, alive and able to do as they please."

"Well, as _she_ pleases, anyway."

 _She_ hadn't said a word since the Luteces appeared. When Booker regained some confidence in his stomach he forced his gaze toward her, or at least the blurry blue vision he could see through the tears stinging at his eyes. She leaned against a wall of the hotel room defensively, staring at her boots. Her voice was harsh and strained. "You think I did the wrong thing?"

"I think you've been _wronged_ ," Robert clarified, not a hint of judgment in his face. "You've escaped a terrible evil in this world, and you're entitled to enjoy that freedom as you like."

"And that evil still exists in all those other worlds," she snapped. "I can put a stop to it, you don't think that gives me the responsibility?"

"You and my brother are entirely too moral for your own good," Rosalind sighed, looking equally affectionate and exasperated. "Why should you suffer any more than you already have?"

"Because of all the suffering Comstock is causing elsewhere!" she retorted, hiccupping on another sob. "I can _see_ it, all of it, but I can't…I _can't_ …"

"Perhaps asking her to give up both a father _and_ lover is simply too much."

"You think she would have chosen differently if Mr. DeWitt had only been one?"

"Merely a hypothesis, dear sister. I suppose it doesn't matter now."

Rosalind looked at the girl with an expression full of pity. "As it stands, you know how this will end, what lies beyond this door for you and him. You _know_ the pain that will come regardless of your choice, and yet, you choose an ending that, in the utilitarian sense, will _not_ bring about the most good. How did you ever come to _that_ decision?"

Booker felt Annabelle's eyes on him again and he flinched. He almost covered his ears so he wouldn't have to hear her speak, so he wouldn't have to hear _any_ of them. "I _need_ him. _This_ him. He's all I…"

Rosalind stepped forward to pat the girl kindly on the shoulder. Whatever bullshit code of ethics the twins followed, it was clear they genuinely cared for their "specimen". "A cruel joke, it must seem, to have powers so divine with a heart so… _human_."

Robert nodded his condolences. "Whichever path you choose, none of us are fit to criticize it. We all have our sins to bear." He tossed an appraising glance at Booker. "Present company certainly included."

The young woman held herself tightly, as if she might shatter on the spot. "Just…just go. Please."

The physicists complied in an almost rudely quick fashion, vanishing without a trace. Booker's stomach lurched when he realized it was only the two of them once more. _I can't, can't be alone with her, can't, don't—_

"Booker," she murmured, kneeling next to him. He tensed into the corner made by the dresser and wall. "I need two things from you, all right?" Her hand rested on his, light as a feather, and he jerked it away out of instinct. Her face fell for only a second, but she quickly composed a neutral expression. _Wonder who she gets that from?_ "I need you to put on these warm clothes, you're going to get sick otherwise."

He took the bundle of material silently, eyes never straying from her face, as if she might attack. Her powers really must have improved if she could open a tear to fetch clothing without him even noticing. _God_ , he was cold, but he didn't want to move, not when she was still watching him so closely. _What else can she possibly want, if she won't kill me?_

"But before you do that…" she started in a delicate manner, the kind one uses to coax a child into something. "Booker, I need you to say my name."

Booker knocked his head hard back against the wall, gnawing at his bottom lip to keep any more tears from slipping out. Her face wasn't neutral anymore, but it wasn't earnest, either. She looked at him with _empathy_. "Y-you already know what I'm going to say," he whispered unsteadily.

"I do," she admitted, a trace of guilt in her voice. "But you still need to say it."

Zachary Comstock was damned, he'd always been damned, even after the baptism. Rallies held in the name of a vengeful god—because fear got results love never could—allies made only to be exploited, a city launched on quantum physics and white supremacy, buying a _child_ , ordering his wife's assassination— _so_ much blood— _locking_ that child in a tower for two decades, profiting off his racism—isn't that what the Lord had demanded?—sacrificing countless devotees and the Luteces in the fight against a false shepherd—a false _him_ —hunting down and torturing that child for _months_ for daring to go against him—because he _loved_ her, couldn't she see that?—

That child kneeled in front of Booker, as patient and full of grace as any angel. It made him want to weep all over again, as hard as the night he lost Anna—so he did. When the water streamed down his cheeks the girl took him into her arms, and he didn't fight it, didn't withdraw, but buried his sobs into her shoulder, so that she might absorb the man's sins, _both_ the men's sins, _all_ the men's sins. A constant stream of transgressions from two halves of the same circle had resulted in this woman, so full of life and compassion that her warmth made Booker shudder even harder as she rocked him. What sort of girl would she have become if DeWitt had been the only one to ever wrong her? _That girl isn't here_.

" _Elizabeth_ ," he choked, and he wasn't sure if it was her body heat or the flames of hell warming him now. "Your name…is Elizabeth."

She took his face in her hands, a sad, encouraging smile at her lips, which she pressed to his forehead chastely. "It's okay, now, Booker. I'm here." It was the same voice she'd consoled Songbird in— _why couldn't she drown me, too?_

Booker didn't know how long they sat on the floor, or how many bars Elizabeth hummed into his ear to soothe him. She never shivered, despite soaking in her fair share of the river. All he was sure of was that he was still shaking when she finally pulled away from him, and he grabbed at her in a panic. _Don't go, please, you should, but don't_ —

"You need to change now," Elizabeth chided him softly, reaching for the dry clothes. They were a perfect match to their drenched counterparts. Booker's fingers fumbled around his vest; the digits were numb and unresponsive. "I can help you."

He stumbled away from her abruptly, not even bothering to shake his head. She was Elizabeth, to call her anything else would be unfair after the upbringing she'd endured in Columbia, but she was still…Booker used the last of his salts on a steady, controlled burst of Devil's Kiss, wincing at the pain that came with regaining a sense of touch. Elizabeth got to her feet and turned her back to give him some privacy as he changed. She busied herself with cleaning up his mess from earlier, which would leave a nasty stain on the rug no matter what. When she finished she returned to the window, letting him come to her when he was ready. Booker's footsteps were clumsy and uncertain as he approached Elizabeth, and despite the dryness he felt no warmer.

"It's Paris," she muttered, gazing down at the alley beneath them. The odd sign and banner in French proved her point. "Not a great view, but this room was unoccupied for the night." Booker disagreed. He couldn't see the Eiffel Tower or smell any wine, but the moonlight poured through the window unobstructed and illuminated Elizabeth with a gentle glow. "I thought I might as well see it, at least once."

Booker's brow furrowed. "You're not staying?" Shit, this was her _dream_. She couldn't give him up but she was abandoning a life-long fantasy?

Elizabeth stared at him pensively before making her offer. "In this world, Comstock was never born. But he still exists in others, and…and I'm going to put him down, Booker, as many times as I can. And I'd like you to come with me."

Booker peered at her in bewilderment. "But you wouldn't _have_ to if you just—"

"I'm not. Killing you." Her eyes grew glassy as she spat the words out. "Stop asking me to."

Booker wondered if omniscience came with its own special brand of logic—it would explain the whimsical air the Luteces brought into every dire situation. Elizabeth could put an end to everything in minutes, yet she wanted to drag it out—and ultimately leave the job unfinished—with him. Because it was the only way she could keep him. There was nothing Booker had ever done that warranted her mercy—he wasn't convinced drowning him _wouldn't_ be mercy—so why was Elizabeth so adamant that he live? Why did she insist on having his company?

"I'm not a good man," Booker muttered weakly—not that she needed reminding.

"And I'm not asking you to be," she replied in desperation. "But you're a good killer, and I need that. It'll be dangerous…will you help me?"

There was a pleading in her eyes that Booker couldn't comprehend. Did she think he could refuse her _anything?_ If he couldn't undo his past, if he had to keep living with it, then the only bearable way to spend his existence would be in her service, whatever that required of him. And if Elizabeth was bent on throwing herself in harm's way—and God knew he wouldn't be able to stop her—then hell, he belonged right next to her in the thick of it. "Of course, I just don't understand why—"

"Booker, do you really need to?" Elizabeth cut him off, almost beseechingly. "I want you with me in this." She took a step closer so that her skirt brushed against his legs, and it took all his self-control not to back away. Elizabeth could sense his discomfort, but held her ground and took one of Booker's hands in hers. "I know this is…complicated, everything we've been through. But you and I make a good team, isn't that clear enough?"

"Is that what you want to be, then?" Booker felt his throat close at the idea of putting a label on their relationship. He was even more hesitant to ponder how they fit together than he had been at Comstock House—Christ, was that only last night? _I still want her_. The thought repulsed him…didn't it? _No, I don't, I don't want to touch her…I don't_ want _to want to, but…_ Was this side of the circle really better than the other?

"You called me your partner at the mansion," Elizabeth reminded him. Her hands felt so tiny around Booker's, he shouldn't feel so trapped. _There's no getting away from her…and I don't want to_. "We're still partners, aren't we?"

It was such a detached way of looking at it, but at least the word didn't make him dizzy. _Father…seller…kidnapper…betrayer…lover…rescuer…friend?_ All of those terms had habit of making the room spin at varying speeds. Partner…that could work for now. "Yeah, partners."

Elizabeth beamed at him with a sincerity that almost made his knees buckle. "Then get some rest, Booker. We've got a lot of work to do."


	7. No Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this story to the end, I hope you enjoyed it. The sequel is coming soon!

The hotel room was almost completely dark, the only source of light being a patch of moonlight from the window that fell just short of the bed. Elizabeth sat on the floor at the border of that patch, listening to the steady rhythm of Booker's breathing as he slept. Her own limbs ached fiercely, but there would be no rest for her tonight. Not after what she'd done. Booker's arm was hanging limply off the side of the mattress, and Elizabeth clung to it possessively. Under normal circumstances—or whatever counted as _normal_ for them—he would have woken up, but she could hardly fault him for passing out so absolutely after the day they'd had.

She traced the ridges and valleys of his hand, reading the story she'd already seen through the doors. Calluses from a lifetime of rough living and rougher killing. A scar on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger from where the skin had been caught in a factory machine—a relic of his time with the Pinkertons. Dirt and blood under every nail. Elizabeth cupped the hand around her face and let a tear roll onto it.

_The holsters were the first to go. Then the vest, then the suspenders. Booker tucked and extended his arms as necessary, as if he was simply a doll being changed, but all the while he peered at Elizabeth with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. She kept her gaze fastened to whatever she was removing—she might have lost her nerve otherwise. His necktie came undone and slipped away easily enough, but when she reached for the buttons of his shirt, his hands wrapped around her upper arms._

Why had she been so insistent on sleeping with him? Up until that night in Emporia, a few drawn-out glances had been the only sign that Booker saw her… _that_ way. Yet she was willing to risk her dignity and the fragile stability in their partnership for…what? Companionship. A sense of control. Desire. Elizabeth had certainly been fascinated by him, ever since he crashed into her library. Booker fell short in every comparison she drew to the heroes in her books, whether it was in charm or tenderness or chivalry. But he cared about her, that much was obvious, even when he was trying to sell her— _for the second time, you fool_ —and that was more than she could say of anyone else.

_The pause seemed to last a lifetime to Elizabeth. He held her firmly in place, and she could almost feel his stare, which she still refused to meet. How had she already messed it up? A reprimand never came, however. Booker eventually hooked his thumbs inside of her jacket and pulled it over her shoulders; she straightened her arms to let it slip to the floor. His hands came back to her arms, but now they were running up and down the newly exposed skin, never staying in one place. They were warm and rough, and glided smoothly across her upper back and neck._

Elizabeth drew his hand to her arm, waiting to see if his touch inspired any new feelings. Her books on propriety never mentioned this situation—they never _had_ to. It was an abomination, an unnatural attraction condemned by almost every culture. _I could see to it that those cultures were never formed in the first place_ , she thought idly, pressing her cheek firmly into Booker's palm. _What good are their judgments? What standards can be held to someone like me?_ She tipped her head back onto the mattress and closed her eyes, trying to relive the memory without the taste of guilt. It had been a manageable task for the last seven months, even when getting caught meant another humiliating session of penance—why should shame stop her now?

_Elizabeth resumed her earlier task with relief. Heavily-censored biology textbooks had left her with a limited understanding of intercourse, but she was certain clothes weren't a part of it. As she worked her way down the buttons of his shirt, Elizabeth felt Booker's fingers tackling the laces at her back. His movements felt much more confident than her own—and he couldn't even see what he was doing, as fixed as he was on her face. This obviously was not his first time undoing a corset. The thought made her fingers tremble on the last few buttons and roughly yank Booker's shirt tails free._

The fingers beneath hers were remarkably dexterous, there was no denying that. Elizabeth ran a nail over his knuckles. The smoothness with which Booker swapped skyhook for vigor was the same he had used while undressing her. There was a self-assurance in his touch she had tried so hard to match, although there was no hiding her inexperience. Elizabeth wondered if he would ever be able to touch her like that again, considering how afraid he seemed to be of her now.

_"'Lis'beth."_

_She swallowed hard and met his eyes. They were narrowed, his brow furrowed. Elizabeth took a deep breath—and it was actually deep. He'd finished unlacing and held the corset up from slipping down her hips._

_"You sure?"_

_She nodded and straightened her arms, shivering when the cold air hit her torso. Booker inhaled sharply; he must have been expecting a chemise underneath. He reached out for her, but she pushed his hands back to his shirt. The black cloth landed right next to her jacket. Only his undershirt remained, stained by sweat and blood._

Booker had been the only one to ever show her the realities of life. He brained men mere feet from her without hesitation. He demonstrated the flimsiness of a promise by breaking the first one he ever made her, and he never so much as apologized. Booker had pulled back the curtain between good and evil, Fitzroy and Comstock, so she could see how the world really worked. He helped her get a taste of the blood he was so fond of. Booker protected Elizabeth to the best of his ability—but he never gave a damn about her innocence.

_Elizabeth had seen this much of him before, but only when tending to grievous wounds; there was never any time to admire his physique. Booker DeWitt was a hard man, inside and out. There seemed to be more angles than curves. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin, worn material, and delighted in the rapid movement of his chest as his breath quickened. Elizabeth ran her fingers all the way up to his neck, having to stand on her toes and step up against him to accomplish it. Something firm pressed into her abdomen._

Comstock's priorities were on the opposite end of the spectrum. He had her skin lashed into ribbons, all for the sin of being deflowered. _I suppose his disgust makes more sense, now,_ she realized darkly. The thought of the prophet made Elizabeth squeeze Booker's hand painfully hard, yet he didn't so much as stir. Her purity was all that ever mattered to Comstock—she was his _seed_ , not his daughter. Columbia was expected to worship and obey her out of fear.

Booker claimed to fear her—he _did_ fear her, Elizabeth could see it in his eyes. Somehow that didn't stop him from disobeying her on the Hand of the Prophet, when he reneged on yet another promise and drowned Comstock. She should be angrier than she was—men with less power dealt worse punishments for smaller offenses. Men like Comstock and Fink. But in truth, Booker's actions were something of a comfort. In the heat of the moment, he had only done what came naturally by indulging in his bloodlust. Obedience would never be an instinct for a man like him—and Elizabeth didn't want his obedience, no more than she wanted Columbia's.

 _Booker didn't respond at first to the kiss, feeding her worries about her own inexperience. This was the only thing any of her books went into detail about, and she was still utterly unprepared. Once he began returning the embrace, Booker kissed as if he wanted to devour Elizabeth. He tasted like cigarettes and something harsher—she guessed at some type of alcohol. Perhaps he'd found a bottle of something or other while searching this house, or in a trash can—_ God, don't think about that now _, she berated herself. His stubble scraped against her jaw and his hips abruptly bucked against hers. Elizabeth didn't expect the sudden force and stumbled back, hitting the side of the bed and falling onto the sheets._

_Booker seemed to enjoy the view. There was a hunger in his eyes as he planted his knees on the mattress, both on either side of her hips. If he was drunk, he was amazingly coordinated despite it. He leaned in to meet her mouth but paused when she grabbed a handful of his undershirt. Nodding, he pulled it over his head, stretching all the way up. Elizabeth gasped at the scars—straight, long, thin, short, thick, crooked, some pale and others dark, covering more of him than she ever imagined. Small wonder he avoided conversations of his past. Booker was expressionless, whether by accident or through practice, and let her stare as she liked._

She now knew the origin of each one of those scars, as well as every scar Booker had ever given another man—and those were the lucky ones, the few allowed to live. Elizabeth turned her head, straining her eyes to make out the details of Booker's face in the dark. All she could see was blood. By sparing his life, wasn't she condoning all his violent tendencies? Elizabeth had run screaming from him at Battleship Bay, valuing the sanctity of life above her own freedom. Now she was practically Booker's sponsor, and unlike the Pinkertons, she didn't much care how brutal he was in their crusade against the prophet. The vengeful side of her looked forward to seeing how creative Booker could be when it came to dispatching countless versions of the same man.

_Elizabeth reached up to trace one of the larger discolorations, a healed-over gash that stretched from his rib cage to his hip. "H-How are you still alive, Mr. DeWitt?"_

_His poker face broke as he laughed. Elizabeth had never heard that sound before, not from him. It vibrated in his belly against her fingertips. "Beats me." Elizabeth frowned at the inadequate answer—Booker seemed to thwart her every attempt at better understanding him. He smirked at her reaction and bent down to kiss the pout away. "And just call me Booker," he growled against her lips._

She dragged her thumb lightly over his mouth, marveling at the slow warmth of his breath. The doors were clear enough inside her head, but he was tangible proof of the choice she had made, a regret she _should_ have. How could Elizabeth ever justify sparing one bad man—because he _was_ , wasn't he?—when it meant sparing every worse version of him? Even _this_ version of him wasn't the best of Booker DeWitt, and he'd certainly brought out the worst in her. Yet he was here, sleeping, breathing, because she demanded it to be so.

 _She felt so small underneath him, even as she wormed her arms around his middle. Booker undermined her efforts at ensnaring him by slipping out of her embrace and onto the floor, where he busied himself with her boots._ Oh, right. I can't wear shoes to bed. _But she could let a man she hardly knew, and certainly wasn't married to, strip her down? Elizabeth burst into a fit of nervous giggling at the misguided application of etiquette to the situation._

_Booker scowled over her knees, one of her feet captive in his hands. "What's so funny?"_

_"Nothing, I just…I'm not sure how to do this…properly."_

_His thumb moved over her stocking-covered calf in tiny circles. "Don't worry about that," Booker murmured softly, but the green in his eyes sparked intensely, as if they were in the middle of a heated battle. His hands slid purposefully up her legs to peel back the layers of fabric, leaving her skirt to shroud his movements, but his gaze remained fixed on the way her bare chest swelled up and down. Elizabeth suddenly felt very much like a lamb caught in the wolf's grasp._

Now he was caught in hers. Booker didn't want to live with himself, that much was obvious by the way he eyed his pistol earlier. He might even grow to resent her for refusing to take him back to the baptism. _I don't care_ , Elizabeth thought harshly. _He doesn't get to leave me, not after everything that's happened_. If she had let him drown, let the paradox form and turn her into something near-immortal like the Luteces, she would have been…alone. Booker owed her a debt, and the only payment she was willing to accept was his life. He _had_ to stay with her.

_When the skirt was pulled off and left her completely bare, Elizabeth's first reaction was to reach for the nearby sheet and cover up. She knew people had been looking at her naked her entire life through the mirrors in her tower, but seeing Booker's ravenous gaze was something different all together. He pinned her wrist to the bed before she even got close. "You said you were sure," he muttered, and she felt it more than heard it, as close as his mouth was to her shoulder. Elizabeth couldn't tell if the tone was accusing or accepting, but she was certain she wanted to feel more words on her skin._

_"I am…about you."_

At least some things didn't change. His every sin stood out in her mind, and she clung desperately to his better deeds—the couple at the raffle, the child in the bar basement, and those were in the last few days alone—but felt crushed under the weight of his wrongdoings. _His mother died when he was just a boy, he never even met his father, the men in the 7_ _th_ _tormented him for his heritage_ …but every excuse, in the end, was just another detail—and the details wouldn't change a goddamn thing. The sea of doors had robbed Elizabeth of any comforting uncertainty of whether Booker DeWitt was, is, or would be a good man—or even simply good _enough_ to merit Comstock's continued existence. She knew he wasn't, isn't, and never would be, just as surely as she knew she wanted him. Elizabeth now shouldered those sins, if not in his stead then certainly alongside him, and not for any noble reason. The only mystery left to contend with was whether or not it _mattered_.

_"You don't even know me." He mumbled the words into her collarbone, sealing them with a broad and greedy lick._

_"I know enough." Booker had flattened himself over her, giving Elizabeth the modesty she missed and turning her attention to his body instead of her own. She dragged her palms down his back and marveled at the way he shuddered under her touch. "I know I want you to keep doing that."_

His fingers twitched in her hand as he stirred, and Elizabeth froze. She doubted Booker would appreciate waking up to this. He had enjoyed her embrace eagerly enough just this morning, why did that have to change? _Would I care more about sharing his blood if I hadn't grown up in a tower? If he had raised me instead of Comstock?_ The doors to those realities said yes, but they were no substitute for her own. Booker was unburdened by infinite truths in infinite worlds, yet apparently succumbed to guilt all the same. He had stared at her like a prey would at their predator when she suggested helping him undress, and he quickly developed a habit of recoiling from her touch. It only made her crave his all the more. Maybe she was sick, or crazy, or truly as morally bankrupt as Comstock had accused her of being for the last half year—but whatever the cause, the effect remained that DeWitt had raised in her a hardy desire, not a daughter.

The prophet's words rang coldly in her ears. _I am your father, child, and no one will ever care for you as I do_. For months on end he had told her of his love, of the Lord's forgiveness, of her unruly wickedness, and despite the clarity of the doors in her head, Elizabeth couldn't help but _believe_ Comstock. She didn't hate him for taking her as a baby, as some cruel kidnapper; she resented him with the sort of fury tinged with betrayal one could only have for their father. The man whose arm she clung to might fear her wrath—and probably deserved it—but Elizabeth was uninterested in divvying up her rage for two targets—and they _were_ two different targets.

_Booker was already between her legs before she realized he was still fully dressed from the waist down. Everything seemed to happen so fast, and Elizabeth felt more than a little lost. Her toes brushed down the leg of his pants to the leather of his boot, and another flood of decorum overwhelmed her. "Booker, your shoes!"_

_He chuckled again, his stomach vibrating against hers and the spasms of his breath tickling her neck, and Elizabeth decided she quite liked the sound of his laughter, even if it was at her expense. Booker toed off his boots without even lifting himself off her. It gave her a chance to catch her breath between all the kissing—which she also quite liked. His elbows dug into the mattress around her, and the bicep of his left arm bulged next to her cheek. She felt the strangest urge to sink her teeth into the muscle, to see how the rest of Booker tasted compared to his mouth—_ that _certainly wasn't proper. The self-admonishment withered when his lips wrapped around Elizabeth's earlobe._

" _You're thinking about this too hard."_

 _And I still am_ , she thought wryly. What's done is done, and will be done. What was the point in regretting sparing him? The moment they left the sea of doors, every door before the baptism shut tightly, and she hadn't the faintest idea how to open them, even if she wanted to. Elizabeth had made her choice and there was no taking him back, no matter how much he begged. She didn't understand why the sudden limitation had been put in place, or if others would follow. She stared at the lines that crossed Booker's palm intently, as if she would find the secrets of the universe in his skin.

"You're thinking about this too hard."

Elizabeth shushed Rosalind rudely out of instinct, more afraid of Booker waking up than the physicists' sudden arrival.

"He'll be out for quite a while, I can promise you that," Robert quipped from behind the bed. Elizabeth twisted around to look at him, and briefly wondered if there was any such thing as privacy with beings such as them in existence.

"Why did the doors shut?" she asked softly, cradling Booker's hand with more confidence than before. It was quite a comfort to hold onto him, when he wasn't pulling away.

"Do you wish to take back your decision?" Rosalind queried in surprise.

Elizabeth smiled sadly. "No. Shouldn't I?"

"Well that's good, as we certainly can't undo what you've done," Robert remarked, leaning against the dresser with more ease than Booker ever had. "The universe doesn't much care for direct tampering between worlds, you see. It sets things…out of balance."

"You sent one hundred and twenty-two Booker DeWitts to their deaths," Elizabeth reminded him sourly. "Forty-seven versions of me, as well."

"Ah, but those versions were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things," assured Rosalind carelessly, always more interested in the larger experiment than anything else. " _We_ merely helped the two of you survive. _You_ have put yourself on a path to upset that scheme quite irrevocably."

"You'd rather Comstock remained alive? I find that hard to believe."

"The prophet plays a role far larger than Mr. DeWitt ever could," Rosalind chided her gently. "Of course we have no love for him, but if we wanted him dead we could have achieved that ourselves. Killing him outright is quite the interference, and has repercussions, even for one such as you."

"We only hoped to see you reunited with your father," Robert continued, gesturing to the man on the bed.

"Mission accomplished," Elizabeth scoffed bitterly, curling around Booker's forearm defensively. "He locked me away for two decades and had me tortured for months, what girl could ask for more?"

Rosalind scowled down at her like a displeased schoolteacher. "Zachary Comstock is _not_ your true father, Elizabeth—"

" _Yes, he is!_ " she snarled, too angry to be surprised that Booker didn't stir. " _He_ had my mother killed when she wouldn't keep my origin a secret, _he_ kept me in the tower to protect me from the false shepherd, and _he_ spent seven months trying to cure me of my sins!" She almost choked on the words, as furious as they made her, but they poured out all the same.

Robert kneeled down next to her cautiously. "You know he isn't, you've seen the doors, you _and_ Booker. He accepts it, and you need to as well."

Elizabeth shook her head violently, wincing under the pressure of various truths vying for domination in her mind. Of course she was the seed of the prophet. Of course her name was Anna. Of course she was born in New York City—no, _Columbia_. Of course her father was dead. Of course her father was sleeping next to her. It seemed even the sea of doors couldn't compete with months of electroshock therapy and flagellation. For every truth found within a lighthouse, there was a counter from Comstock, or Ruth, or Dr. Powell sounding off within her mind.

"In any case, Comstock is dead," Rosalind stated matter-of-factly. "You two are in Paris and free to live out your lives together, and with your combined skills I doubt you'll want for anything."

" _One_ Comstock is dead," snapped Elizabeth. Ribbons of silver gleamed in her peripherals, and it took all her willpower not to let the tears rip open. "Once will _never_ be enough."

"And just how many dead prophets would it take to satisfy you?" Rosalind asked exasperatedly.

Elizabeth glowered at the woman resentfully. "How about one hundred and twenty-two, for starters?"

Robert sighed as he rubbed his hands against his face. "You don't understand the consequences of that sort of interference, Elizabeth."

"But she did, in the sea," Rosalind reminded him curtly. "She saw every possibility, every horrendous outcome of her actions, and still chose this path."

Elizabeth fidgeted uncomfortably. She had remembered a stark sense of dread before pulling Booker through a tear and out of the baptism, but she couldn't recall _why_ it had made her so afraid. She knew there had been a point where everything that would ever happen to them was as clear as glass—and now their future was behind yet another closed door. Just as the Luteces had no idea if this trial would be successful, she was completely unaware of the aftermath that a trans-dimensional murderous rampage would have. "What do you expect us to do, then? Just sit here and eat croissants?"

"Whatever you like, as long as it makes you happy," Robert answered furtively. "You have every right to be livid with us, after everything we've done to put you in this position—but now that you have a chance at a real life, it would be such a waste to throw it away."

" _He_ thinks you're dedicated to this plan out of guilt," Rosalind noted, waving a hand at Booker. "That you're so overcome by love for him that you simply _had_ to spare him, and devoting your lives to chipping away at the various Comstocks will help balance the karmic scales. Do you think he would still approve if he knew you were after revenge?"

There was validity to both sides of it, but much like the other warring "facts" inside her head, she wasn't sure which was the truest. Elizabeth doubted Booker approved at all. He had killed the prophet in her stead, against her will, to prevent her from turning into even more of a murderer—but that hadn't spared her from adopting his bloodlust. It didn't matter if Comstock didn't die at her hand, _seeing_ it was enough. Seeing it only once wasn't. "He's in no place to judge me." Would she even care if he did?

"No, I don't suppose any of us are," Robert remarked flatly. There was a sadness in his eyes that made her shudder. "I am… _truly_ sorry, Elizabeth. For everything I've done, and haven't done, to get you to this point."

"As am I, dear." Rosalind's voice held a rare shred of warmth until she pursed her lips tensely—was she trying not to cry?

Elizabeth wanted to be outraged with them—if _they_ had never interfered she wouldn't have to bear the burden of such choices in the first place. And yet, the twins had done all they could to make things right, and their guilt was quite genuine. Being angry with them would accomplish nothing— _save it for Father_ , she thought bitterly. She wormed her fingers through Bookers' and drew the back of his hand against her cheek, grounding herself in his touch.

"Apology accepted," she finally muttered. If not for them, she wouldn't have Booker—or at least, not the way she had him now. Whatever way that was. "Thank you…for the warning."

They nodded in unison, taking her thanks as their cue to bow out. Elizabeth felt overwhelmed by the silence that followed their departure, and the looming uncertainty as to what she was turning into. A career assassin, acting only through another? A selfish villain who allowed evil to persist in countless worlds, all because she _wouldn't_ drown Booker? At the very least, Elizabeth was a terrible daughter. She focused on the regular, but barely audible snoring coming from the man beside her, and breathed in time with it. For now, she was content being the lamb with the wolf caught in her grasp.


End file.
